


A Whole New Spin (Anything Can Happen If You Let It)

by servecobwebheadaches



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Ballet, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Mary Poppins - Freeform, Tap - Freeform, dance, dance studio!AU, there will be smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-05-25 05:10:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6181537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servecobwebheadaches/pseuds/servecobwebheadaches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon Urie is a professional ballet dancer, who works and performs under Pete Wentz's direction.  When Pete chooses the production of Mary Poppins, Brendon is assigned to work with Ryan Ross, a professional tap dancer, on one of the main pieces of the show.  Brendon simply hates the entire genre of tap, and instantly hates Ryan Ross himself for disrespecting the precious art of ballet.  Pete further assigns them to work alone in the theatre to get the piece done, for six days a week, lasting three months.</p><p>They have to learn to deal with that, somehow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as stay-punk-ponyboy's idea on tumblr, and I just took it and got carried away, so here you go. Because the world doesn't have enough of Brendon Urie in tights and Ryan Ross in blue, sparkly eyeliner.

_ Fuck _ Mary Poppins.

Whoever thought it was a good idea to bring that show into  _ Brendon's  _ dance studio, Brendon was going to murder.  Yet, it was probably Pete, his director, who loved Brendon, and had given him a valued principle part in the show.  The whole reason Brendon hadn't quit the show was because of his solo parts.  Solo ballet parts, his strong suit.

The part that dragged him down was having to work with the stupid tap department on pieces of choreography.  How did Pete expect him to suddenly work with Ryan Ross and his grand ensemble?  Tap and ballet didn't just coincide in big productions.

Before Brendon had to start choreographing the piece with Ryan Ross, they were both called in to discuss things with Pete.  “As my two favorite dancers in the show,” Pete had said in the voicemail, “I need you to work together and make things fabulous for me.”

Brendon rolled his eyes.  Nothing could be more than obnoxious and useless when it came to a tap routine, let alone mixed with the grace and diligence of ballet.

At eight a.m., Brendon was at the dance studio.  The parking lot was deserted aside from Pete’s car, but Brendon was used to showing up before anyone else.  The studio was quiet when he opened the door, and he dropped his bag under a bench in the hallway.  In the deserted area, he removed his sweatpants and hoodie to reveal his black tights and spandex shirt—dance uniform.  He easily slipped into the soft, black leather ballet shoes, which were starting to fade directly under the balls of his feet.  Other than that, they looked brand new.  In a few weeks, there would be holes in the fabric from overuse, and he would order a new pair of the exact same kind.

Pete sat behind a desk in his tiny office, a cramped, closet-like space right above a practice room.  It smelled of the glass cleaner used every night for the mirrors, and there were a stack of fliers sitting on his desk that displayed the cover of Mary Poppins.  “Morning!” Pete said, looking up from the computer and holding up his energy drink.

“Morning,” Brendon said, standing in the doorway.

Pete stood up and grabbed a flier.  “Let’s go down to one of the studios and you can get warmed up before Ryan gets here.”

“Oh, okay,” Brendon said, and somehow ended up following Pete into one of the studios.  He looked at himself in the full-wall mirror when he walked in, the black of his clothing a stark contrast to the white of the entire room.  Pete simply watched as Brendon stretched the arches of his feet, his ankles, bending forward and arching backward in both of his flat right and left splits.  Brendon was used to it, and didn't feel uncomfortable by himself.

He was easing himself down into his middle splits when the door creaked open, startling him enough to make him fall on his elbows, ass in the air behind him.  He quickly tucked his legs in and sat civilly to look at the door.

A man stood in the doorway, someone who must've gotten lost and needed directions, Brendon thought.  He wore ripped, baggy jeans, a dark green t-shirt, and was holding a thermos of tea.  There was a backpack on his shoulders, and Brendon took in that he looked young enough to still be in high school.  His eyes were hazel, but appeared darker brown due to the blue eyeliner he wore.  Brendon looked carefully to make sure he had it right, and, yes, it really was blue eyeliner.

“Ryan!” Pete said, from behind Brendon.  The boy on the other side of the studio held up a hand in a greeting.

There was no way, Brendon thought, that this boy could dance, not in Pete’s studio.  There was no way Brendon would have to work with him, if this was the Ryan Ross who Pete talked so highly of.

“Ryan, come sit down.  Brendon was just warming up, but we can start discussing now if you want to,” Pete said.

“Nah, it can wait a few minutes.  I'll keep letting him do his ballerina thing; I don't want to interrupt,” Ryan said.

Pete laughed like what Ryan said was a great joke, but Brendon just went back to laying in his middle split, legs open to his sides and face pressed in the floor.  Brendon was already infuriated with this guy and they hadn't even properly met.  First of all, Brendon was not a ballerina, and Ryan would have to learn that soon enough.

“You can introduce yourselves for now, then,” Pete said.

Brendon stood to warm up his feet.  “I'm Ryan Ross, tap professional,” Ryan said, looking at Brendon's face for the first time.

“I'm Brendon Urie, ballet professional,” Brendon said, like he was trying to prove a point, maybe his superiority over Ryan.  Tap wasn't something Brendon thought deserved his respect.

“I've been dancing here for five years,” Ryan said, crossing his arms and sipping his tea.  He matched Brendon's attitude of rivalry.  Brendon was taken aback, as Ryan had been dancing for Pete a whole year longer than Brendon had.

“I've been dancing here for four.”

“Now, I know you two both come from very different backgrounds of dance,” Pete cut in, seeing the tension between Ryan and Brendon, “but you will be working a piece together.  One of the main pieces of the show.   _ Step in Time _ , yes, the one with the chimney sweeps.”

“A perfect tap number,” Ryan said, sounding enthusiastic.

“And that's what you want ballet in, too?” Brendon questioned.

“Yes, yes.  But just you, for the ballet part, Brendon.  There's a whole tap ensemble, which Ryan obviously leads, and then you'll be really dashing with ballet in front of all of it.  Perfect, right?”

No, no, that sounded awful to Brendon.  Brendon wanted to be alone onstage, alone when he was choreographing.  “I don't know if that'll work,” Brendon said.

“It'll work.  It'll be hard work, but it'll work.  Now, now, you've both got to be patient with each other, and learn what each other does, so you can have an understanding and create art together.”

“The only art’s gonna be the patterns of the scuff marks I leave in this floor, Pete.  Tap on a ballet floor, is just—ugh.  A mess,” Ryan said.

Brendon felt defensive.  Ryan couldn't just come in and destroy the floor of Brendon's designated studio.  Brendon spent all day in the same room, doing ballet work for the production from eight in the morning to three in the afternoon, then taught ballet classes there until six, then did private ballet conditioning until nine.  The key words there were ‘ballet’ and ‘Brendon.’  No tapping, and certainly no Ryan could accompany that.

Pete beamed at Ryan's words.  “That's why you're not rehearsing here.  I'm giving you both, and only the two of you, full access to our venue out in Tacoma.  You get the whole theatre and stage and props all you yourselves, isn't that nice?  I trust you won't mess it up too much, and you know how to operate everything in there by now.  I made sure with our schedule that nobody will be out there to bother you with other rehearsals or set building, so it's all yours.”

That raised Brendon's hopes a bit for the next months of rehearsal.  Rehearsing from the beginning on a stage would be extremely helpful, but.  But.  He would have to be alone with a tap dancer, and it was all the way out in Tacoma, a two hour drive from Brendon's home in Seattle.  Brendon put on a smile, anyway.  “So when can we start?” He asked Pete.

Pete smiled back.  “That's why I like you, Brendon.  Always on top of your work.  I think you'll have that in common with Ryan here.  You can start today, if you want.  I have sets of keys for both of you.”

“That would be great,” Ryan said.  Something about Ryan's voice just made Brendon's insides curl, and he began dreading having to be with him for months on end, six days a week.

They got their keys, rehearsal schedules, and CDs for the show music, before heading out of the studio.  Upon opening the door, they locked eyes, and Brendon noticed Ryan's eyeliner was not only bright blue, but also had glitter flecked in it.  “See you in a few hours, dude.  It's quite the drive,” Ryan said.

“Call me Brendon,” he said, wanting to come off as cold, distant.  Maybe, if he kept that up, Ryan would leave him alone with the choreography.

Ryan seemed personally offended.  “You're just trying to keep up the whole stuck up ballet dancer thing.  I get it,” Ryan said, with a bit of a glare.  Brendon couldn't take it very seriously with the eyeliner and the young face.

They didn't exchange any more words to part, simply getting in separate cars.  Brendon listened to the soundtrack Pete had given him on the way to the theatre, paying close attention to  _ Step in Time _ while he sat in traffic.  It would be easy to choreograph if he had the whole stage to himself to dance, instead of having to share it with the tap dancers.

He stopped at a gas station to pick up two diet sodas, a pre-made ham sandwich, and a bag of chips to get him through the day.  He couldn't help but scoff at Ryan and his dumb tea— _ tea _ —and Ryan called Brendon the stuck up one.  At least Brendon would go through the day with food that actually tasted good and gave him energy.

Ryan was already onstage, tapping, when Brendon walked in.  The hollow, loud clicking sounds filled the quiet and empty auditorium, along with the music Ryan was playing directly off his cell phone.  Brendon watched from the back of the house for a few moments, sneering slightly.  Tap was still obnoxious and pointless, especially with Ryan in his unprofessional jeans and t-shirt.  The laces on his black tap shoes weren't even black, they were orange, and stuck out quirkily.  Ryan's phone laid on the floor of the stage, but Brendon couldn’t tell what it was playing over Ryan's tap.

Brendon knew from how quickly and loudly Ryan was moving that he wasn't lying when he said he was a professional.  Brendon had only taken tap for a year when he was a kid, but he hated it even then.  His body never was meant to move like that.  With his little tap knowledge, he knew Ryan was probably good at what he did, and some part of him told him to be kind and respect Ryan for it.  The other part of him was irritated and hated Ryan already, and that overruled the respect part.

He confidently walked to the front of the house and dumped his things right in front of the stage, climbing up on it.  Ryan ignored him, seeming deeply focused on the movements and scuffings of his feet.  Brendon sat on the stage, feeling the jolts of Ryan's weight, and put his ballet shoes back on.  With a bit more self-consciousness than with Pete, Brendon stretched his splits.  Off the side stage, in the wings, Brendon knew there were center barres for the ballet dancer’s use.  Brendon pulled one out by himself, while Ryan watched, not helping him while he struggled with the long and heavy metal.  He finally got it out onstage, when Ryan said, “I'm using this area, so can you, like, not do that here?” Ryan asked.

“I have to warm up,” Brendon defied.

“So do I.”

Brendon looked around the stage.  His barre wasn't even taking up the whole stage; there was still plenty of room for Ryan to do his warming up while Brendon did his.  Brendon huffed and moved the bar a fraction of an inch, then looked at Ryan.  “There, happy?”

“Yeah, whatever.”  Ryan turned the music up on his phone, blaring Green Day across the room.  It was necessarily bad, because Brendon liked Green Day, but it was just another irritating change from the regular classical piano he used for barre work.  A few moments later, Ryan turned the music off and left the stage, grabbing his backpack as he went.  Out of the corner of Brendon’s eye, he could see Ryan behind one of the legs—in one of the wings, between curtains.  Ryan was getting the tech system geared up to play the Mary Poppins soundtrack, and just as Brendon extended his right leg to begin his  _ rond de jambe en l’air  _ combination, there was a shrieking feedback echoing through the theatre from all the speakers.  Brendon dropped his leg and covered his ears, glaring over in Ryan’s direction.  It got particularly loud, then went silent again.

“Do you even know what the hell you’re doing?” Brendon said from across the stage.

“Yeah, yeah, shut up,” Ryan said.

A voice filled the air, the one of whatever actor played Bert in the soundtrack Pete had given them.  “ _ Wind’s in the east, there’s a mist comin’ in . . . _ ”  Ryan skipped through all the tracks until he found  _ Step in Time _ , then paused it.

“Are you almost done?” Ryan demanded.  “So we can get this done and over with?”

Brendon did a  _ piqu _ _ é arabesque  _ and a  _ fouetté  _ around himself to face Ryan.  “No, you know what?  I’m not almost done.  I think I’ll add a couple more combinations at barre to stall hearing your attempts to tap,” Brendon said.

“Well, I’m not too keen on watching you do a bunch of kicks and twirls, either, so.”  Ryan pushed his body weight up on the toes of his tap shoes, and spun around with bent knees.  It was meant to be mocking, but it just looked somewhat dangerous as Ryan teetered.  He landed on the heels of his shoes with a loud, thudding sound.

“I can’t believe I have to work with you,” Brendon said, through gritted teeth, as he tried to do his  _ rond de jambe en l’air  _ combination again.  Ryan watched the quick circular motions of Brendon’s leg as he brought his pointed toe to his knee and circled it back out to the height of his shoulder.

“I thought you’d want to make it work if you want to keep this solo of yours,” Ryan said, looking somewhere over Brendon’s eyes.

“What do you mean?  Of course I’m keeping my solo.”

“I’m just saying, it would be such a shame, wouldn’t it, if something were to happen to those strong, strong ankles, and the perfect arches of your feet . . .”

Brendon sneered.  “You can’t do shit to follow through with that threat.”

Ryan tutted and walked back to the sound system.  “One of us should have this whole stage to ourselves, and if I were to say that the person should be me—then, of course, I would have to do something about that, wouldn’t I?  And I don’t want your weak little piece of the show infiltrating my choreography.”

“Ah, and do you think of what Pete would say?  When I tell him, with a fractured ankle, that it had been his dear, beloved Ryan Ross who’d purposely injured me, his most valued ballet instructor and dancer?”

Ryan pursed his lips.  “I’m not saying it would happen right now, but, you know, onstage, all it takes is a little slip of timing for things to go horribly wrong.”

“That defeats the whole purpose of injuring me, then, if you want the whole stage, starting now . . .”

At the end of the day, Brendon was going to have all his muscles and bones intact, and Ryan wasn’t going to touch him.  That was the only good part.  The choreography wasn’t getting done, as they kept bickering about the first four counts of music.

It was going to be a long, long three months of rehearsal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ballet is the least modest sport.

“It's only been a week of rehearsals, you two, and you've both already complained to me about each other, the song choice, the production, and the style of performance,” Pete reprimanded with a sigh.  “I have never had two dancers despise each other as much as you guys.”

 

“It would help if Ryan didn't insist on—” Brendon began.

 

“I think you don't have any respect for what the other does,” Pete said.  “Ballet is one of the hardest dance forms, and it takes full body strength and control, all while being graceful and a performer—like you, Brendon.  And tap is just as difficult, with years and years of practice and memorization of technique, repetitions onstage but still making it look easy and fun—that's you, Ryan.”

 

“But I don't care about gracefulness, and neither will the audience, when it comes to  _ Step in Time.  _  It's a tap piece, and it should be mine to choreograph, and Brendon can take his pointe work or whatever it's called to  _ Spoonful of Sugar _ or something better for ballet,” Ryan claimed.

 

Brendon could agree with that, to a certain extent.  He would be at peace with having his solo in a different song if Pete allowed that.  But Ryan had everything else wrong.  “I don't do pointe work, Ryan, as I am a male ballet dancer,” he informed.

 

Ryan looked at Brendon, then back at Pete.  “Like I said, I really don't care about ballet at all.”

 

Pete leaned back in his chair.  “I'm not changing the pieces I've assigned you.  You're going to make it work.  Ryan, I want you to start taking Brendon's eight o’clock class on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  Brendon, I want you to start taking Ryan's seven o’clock class on Wednesdays and Fridays.  I don't want to hear another word of complaint about the style of tap or the style of ballet.”

 

“You want Ryan in my beginning pointe class?” Brendon said, flatly.

 

Pete nodded.  “Yes.  And you in tap technique and conditioning.  You need to be able to help each other with choreography.”

 

“I don't own tap shoes,” Brendon said.

 

“I don't own ballet shoes,” Ryan echoed.

 

“Buy some.  I'm sure Brendon can tell you the best brand for ballet shoes, and Ryan for tap.”  Pete smiled.  “So you'll do that, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Brendon said.

 

“Of course.”

 

Neither of them would ever go against Pete's direct instructions, no matter how much they disagreed or dreaded it.  Ryan wasn't any more pleasant at rehearsal after joining Brendon's ballet class, and when it was his first day.  Brendon was almost looking forward to watching Ryan make a fool of himself when he attempted to do ballet.  He knew the teenage girls in his class would outdo Ryan without even trying.

 

Both Ryan and Brendon had bits and pieces of choreography in mind, randomly strewn throughout the song.  They still didn't have an entrance, because both of them wanted to enter alone at the beginning.  The regularly argued about it, and it completely prevented all other collaborative work.

 

“I want the intro, to show how it's a tap piece, and you get your part as being a ‘surprise’ to the audience later in the number.  It's that easy,” Ryan claimed.

 

“The beginning is a slower tempo.  It only makes sense for me to have it.  It'll look more natural if I start it,” Brendon combated.

 

“Nothing in this will look natural with you in it,” Ryan grumbled.

 

They mostly ignored each other through the rehearsal, although Brendon caught Ryan glowering at him a few times.  Brendon did the same, whenever he got frustrated with the dance he was working on—stopping to watch Ryan struggle to make up what he was doing through the counts of music.  Ryan wrote what he came up with in a notebook, with a pen he kept tucked behind his ear at all times, somehow not falling out when he was dancing.

 

Brendon listened to where Ryan was in the music, listened to how well, or how poorly, Ryan's tapping went with the music.  Ryan had to test his movements several times before he was pleased with it enough to move on.

 

Ryan raised an eyebrow when he caught Brendon watching him, when Brendon wasn't working himself.  “Lazy,” Ryan drawled.  Brendon had the image of hitting Ryan in the temple with the heel of his foot, flexed feet in a modernly perfect ballet position.

 

“Asshole,” Brendon shot back.  He rolled his shoulders, and turned his legs out from the thigh, making his hips pop.  That felt better.

 

The traffic from Tacoma to Seattle, for Brendon to make it to the classes he taught at the studio, was long and irritating.  His mind wandered to his nightly routine, while he ate some macaroni and cheese.  He had to teach Intermediate Conditioning, which was an intensive workout for the near-professional dancers.  Afterwards, he had his Beginning Pointe class, with teenage girls and newly, Ryan Ross.  Finally, before he went home, he had solo work with Pete directing him.  After rehearsals, his day was only halfway done.

 

Teaching conditioning was a tiring workout, strengthening all his muscles and burning a crazy amount of calories.  He was used to being able to sit back and simply instruct during the class right after, to cool down from that intensity.

 

His pointe dancers filed into the room, sitting in a circle to lace up their shoes.  The girls were all on time, but Ryan hadn't shown up.  Of course Ryan would be late.  He didn't care about Brendon's class.

 

Brendon had started the class, having his students bring out the barre.  They warmed up their feet, got re-accustomed with being en pointe, by doing  _ relevès _ and forced arches, all the way up on the flat part of the shoe and bending their knees.  Brendon critiqued every girl, carefully, pleased as they applied his corrections.

 

Ryan walked in about fifteen minutes after class has started, blue eyeliner smudged.  Brendon glared, just noticeable enough for Ryan to see it.  He wore a tight t-shirt and baggy sweatpants, hanging over his ankles and billowing around his tiny frame.  His ballet shoes were the exact same as Brendon's, except Ryan's were brand new, having never been used.

 

Brendon’s students had all turned to look at the door upon Ryan walking in, and greeted him enthusiastically.  It appeared that they all took Ryan's tap classes.  Ryan ignored Brendon in favor of talking to them, completely interrupting the class.  Brendon paused the music, attracting the attention of the class again, and he cleared his throat.

 

“Take a spot at the barre,” he told Ryan.  “We’ll restart the combination.”

 

He didn't tell Ryan what was going on or what to do, and left him to fend for himself.

 

Brendon quite enjoyed watching Ryan struggle.  The girls kept glancing at him, but didn't grin or say anything.  Ryan grit his teeth and tried to copy the girls, as he didn't understand the ballet terms Brendon used as instruction.  Brendon wasn't about to demonstrate for him, either.

 

From a technical standpoint, Brendon really started to get picky towards the end of class.  He went over and smacked the girls’ arms lightly if they were drooping, not in the proper, strong shape.  He would push a girl’s shoulders until they were fully straight.  If anything majorly stuck out to Brendon's trained eye, he wouldn't hesitate to physically fix it himself.

 

Then there was Ryan, who was half-assing everything.  Brendon snidely looked him up and down when he got to his place at the barre.

 

Ryan was in what was supposed to be a  _ relevè possè _ position, balanced on the ball of his left foot, right knee bent, hip pushed open, right toes pointed against his left knee.  He was failing this horribly, and Brendon was ready to attempt to correct it.

 

Brendon walked around to stand behind Ryan, and grabbed both his shoulders.  Ryan tensed under the touch, which made him lose balance and start falling even more.  Brendon's hands tightened to catch him, hold him up, while he laughed a bit cruelly.  Ryan extended an arm out of position to grasp at the barre for support, but Brendon took his forearm and put it back in front of Ryan.

 

Due to Ryan's lack of balance, Brendon continued holding him up by the shoulders, and whispered, “How does it feel to have a bunch of teenage girls kicking your ass?”

 

Ryan rolled his shoulders in response, like he was trying to get Brendon to stop touching him.  Brendon pushed on Ryan's shoulders a bit more, until he had perfect posture, shoulders exactly over his hips.  It was then that Brendon let go, and Ryan wobbled and went back on his flat foot.

 

Brendon moved around to face Ryan's front, and shook his head.  “Back up on  _ relevè _ ,” Brendon said.  When Ryan simply looked at him, Brendon flatly said, “That means on your toes.”  Ryan sighed and obeyed, silently, but he couldn't hold that balance for long.  Brendon smirked, snidely.  “Hold onto the barre if you really need to.”  Ryan immediately grasped it, and managed to stay on his toes, the other arm in the correct first position.  “Posture,” Brendon reminded.  Ryan pulled his shoulders up in line, but overcompensated for balance by pushing his ribcage and hips forward.  “No, no, you didn't really fix anything.” Brendon placed a hand on Ryan's abdomen, and Ryan straightened his back, posture much better.

 

He was holding his breath to stay balanced, and Brendon laughed a little bit.

 

“Your legs look horrible,” Brendon said, bluntly.

 

“And are you going to fix them?” Ryan said mockingly.

 

“Yes.”

 

Brendon grabbed Ryan's bent knee and pressed it back, so Ryan's leg was turned out from the hip.  He ran his hand down Ryan's calf and grabbed the arch of his foot, forcing him to point his toes, the opposite of the gentle touch Brendon usually applied on his students.  He then stepped back to see how Ryan looked, and said, “Your standing leg should look like half of a first position still.”

 

“I don't know what you're talking ab—”

 

Brendon bent down in front of Ryan, slipping a hand under his thigh and another on his ankle.  “Turn out,” Brendon said, pulling Ryan's heel forward and exposing the inside of Ryan's thigh.  “There.  That's  _ almost _ a ballet position,” Brendon said.

 

“What else is there?” Ryan asked, disbelieving and a bit out of breath.

 

Brendon looked up at Ryan from where he was bent down.  “Don't lose the other corrections I just gave you,” Brendon said, then pushed on the tip of Ryan's foot, making all of his weight shift onto the ball of his foot.

 

His ankle fidgeted, and Brendon let go.  “Much better,” Brendon said, looking at Ryan.  “Now relax.”

 

Ryan came out of the balance with an inhale, heels hitting the floor.

 

Brendon dismissed the rest of his class, and sat back in his chair to watch Ryan leave.  When he got to the door, Brendon said, “Hey, Ross?”

 

Ryan turned around, the last one in the room.  “What?”

 

“You might want to actually follow dress code next time if you want to be able to dance.  You need actual ballet attire.”

 

Ryan simply smiled at Brendon.  Brendon didn't like that as an answer.

 

“What?” Brendon asked, serious.

 

“Are you really asking to see me in tights?” Ryan said, laughing.

  
Brendon didn't expect to get embarrassed by Ryan's snarky comments, but he inwardly was, at that.  Outwardly, he was just as irritated as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might take awhile to update and for that I apologize.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon can win a battle and fall into another, easily—neither of which by choice.

Tap class was just another inconvenience for Brendon. He had bought a proper pair of tap shoes, but they were half a size too big. Brendon didn't know if he should break them in before going to class, so he didn't do it.

Unlike Ryan, Brendon had the decency to show up to class on time. He had been dreading it, knowing Ryan would make him look bad in front of the class—give Brendon a proper repayment for what he did to Ryan in ballet. Brendon went to class, already with the idea that he was horrible at tap dancing. Ryan would surely correct him non-stop, confuse him with his high skill in tap, and embarrass him further.

Ryan had been embarrassing Brendon a lot lately without even knowing it.

The longer their rivalry, their dumb nagging comments to each other went on, Brendon became increasingly uncomfortable and flustered by it. Rehearsals were hellish, and it seemed like every little thing Brendon did was analyzed and criticized by Ryan. To keep up with the insults, brendon had to pay more attention to Ryan, as Ryan did to him, but it was difficult. Just as Brendon was extremely trained and skilled, Ryan was also a professional at what he did, and it was . . . Difficult to make insults that cut into that without sounding totally immature.

Brendon prepared for more of such actions before walking into the studio to take Ryan's class. Brendon could tell himself that he didn't want the students who took both his and Ryan's classes to see him at such a low point—taking a tap class with so much aloofness—but in reality, all his dread was in seeing Ryan.

The tap class was large. There were familiar faces amongst the twenty five people in the room, and they were the students he knew. Ryan was already in the studio, tying up his own pair of tap shoes. Brendon spotted the orange laces immediately. The room was loud with the sound of voices and tap shoes on the wooden floor. Everyone seemed lax, as Ryan hadn't even greeted anyone in his class yet. That was until Ryan caught Brendon's stare across the room, and he raised his eyebrows at Brendon and smiled slightly. It was almost friendly, Brendon noted, but it might have just been mischievous.

Ryan stood up and looked in the wall-mirror, doing something that looked complicated with his tap shoes. Several people stopped talking to watch him, even though Ryan didn't ask for their attention. After a few minutes, he turned around to face the class, standing in the front of the room. “Hey, guys,” Ryan said. “I finished choreographing your ensemble piece this morning.”

The class murmured their enthusiasm to this. Brendon wondered when Ryan had did that, as Brendon had spent all day bickering with Ryan over Step in Time.

“This piece is kinda long, so we’ve got a lot of work to do before Mary Poppins, but I believe in you,” Ryan continued. “It's called Step in Time.”

The class Pete had signed Brendon up for was the ensemble Brendon was going to be dancing with onstage. It all suddenly made sense. Ryan hadn't really been getting anything done for his own work in the number because he had been choreographing for a huge ensemble.

“We’ve got a lot going on in this number, so before we even start, be mindful of it. We have Dallon and Breezy as Bert and Mary singing up on the scaffolding behind you, and in front of you, there's two additional solo pieces. One of those is mine.”

“So we get to dance onstage with you?” A student asked.

“Yeah,” Ryan laughed, “but I'm not doing the same choreography as you will be.”

Ryan started placing the students in a formation to start the dance, and Brendon stepped to the side. Ryan left an aisle-way down the center. “Solo entrances will happen here, so don't fill this space in,” Ryan said. “They'll need the space. The intro to the music is nice and slow, all smooth, so no real tapping here, alright?” Ryan said, over the very beginning music of the song.

“Wait,” a student said. “If we have an aisle for a solo at the beginning, and there's no tap, then what are you doing onstage?”

Ryan nodded. “I'm not onstage at the beginning. We’ve got Ballerina-Boy Urie over here for this part . . .”

Brendon blinked. Ryan had willingly given him the entrance to the song, let Brendon win the fight that they had been having since the start of rehearsals.

Laughter rippled across the class at the play on Brendon's name and dance style, but Brendon didn't try to play it off with a smile. He kept his blank face and casted it to Ryan, who shrugged back at him.

Ryan worked on the piece with his class, and didn't even pay attention to Brendon afterwards. Ryan had his few favorite students, who he praised for their dancing—Brendon didn't know if he had ever heard Ryan give a compliment. Brendon hardly ever complimented his students, always full of constructive criticism. He stowed it away in his mind that maybe Ryan was too nice to his students. Growing up, Brendon's teachers had all been strictly ballet, and it was all discipline and professionalism. Pete was the kindest instructor Brendon had ever known, but Brendon supposed he deserved his compliments.

Ryan's students flourished under his laid-back manner, and they all listened to them. He was gentle to the students who were falling behind, and when the class was over, Ryan left them with, “You guys are so talented. I couldn't have gotten a better ensemble. Get home safe.”

It seemed so genuine, Brendon thought, it was no wonder Pete liked Ryan.

Before the class exited the room, and before Ryan properly dismissed them, his phone rang loudly. Ryan rolled his eyes and turned around to get it, saying, “I probably should have silenced that.” He looked at his phone screen and grinned, looking back up at the class. “Sorry, it's my girlfriend, I should take it.”

Ryan picked up the phone and the class suddenly burst out into obnoxious conversation. “Keltie! We love you!” A student shouted.

“She says she loves you too,” Ryan chuckled.

They fell quiet after that to listen to Ryan talk to his girlfriend.

“Yeah, my class is almost over. I'll be home in, like, thirty minutes. Yeah, I love you, too.”

Ryan hung up after the short exchange, and the class broke out in a collective, “Awww.”

“Shut up,” Ryan said, shaking his head, but it was playful. “And go home, I kept you late.”

The students left, and Brendon stayed behind them, but left the room as well. Ryan was behind even him, shutting off the lights of the studio and locking the door. They ended up walking together all the way to the lobby, where Ryan grabbed his bag and Brendon put on ballet shoes again—he still had more dance classes.

“You got anyone to go home to? Or do you just live here at the studio?” Ryan asked. It was supposed to be another insult, but it just came out as normal conversation.

“I've got an apartment, I just stay here until nine or ten most nights.” As tired as Brendon was by the end of the day, he was never in a rush to go back to his place. He lived alone, and didn't have much to do besides eat, shower, and sleep.

“That's pretty late,” Ryan said, putting on normal shoes, “considering how early you get here.”

“I guess,” Brendon said shortly.

Ryan sighed and looked at Brendon for a moment. “Well, I'll see you tomorrow, then,” he said.

“Yeah,” Brendon replied, and with that, Ryan left the studio.

Pete asked him about Ryan's class, about Ryan's behavior to him, and Brendon wasn't even sure if he was lying when he said, “He's not too bad of a person.”

That's night, when he went home, he detested the silence in the apartment. The place was nice, fairly high scale in Seattle—one bedroom, with a bathroom, a kitchen, and a small living space. He could afford it, as he lived alone, and didn't even have any furniture in the living room. He practiced there to stay in shape over breaks, or when he was bored on his days off.

He was too lost in thought to sing in the shower as he normally would have. As much as he hated to admit it, he really didn't have a life outside of dance. His friends were the people he saw everyday at the studio.

Nobody had been into his apartment besides his parents when they first helped him move in. He didn't have anybody to invite over.

Brendon laid in bed, and thought about how strange his life was, with nobody really knowing much about him. He wondered if the people he knew at the studio went home and talked about him to their girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands, wives. If anyone wanted to get to know him better, be closer with him.

It made him curious about everyone else. He knew Pete and Mikey, and they were vaguely friends. There was the one time Pete invited Brendon over after a day of rehearsal, and Mikey had been waiting at home for Pete, Pete's favorite music playing through the house. Brendon remembered Pete's smile whenever he saw Mikey, too genuine and personal for Brendon to ever receive. Brendon thought of when the week before productions came around, and Mikey would sit at rehearsal—whenever Pete was too stressed that everything would go wrong, Mikey’s words would be the only ones that could soothe him.

Pete loved Mikey. They were happy. Together. Brendon wondered if he would have that. Brendon wondered if Pete was ever alone like him, before he found Mikey. Brendon wondered what made Pete and Mikey fall together so seamlessly.

Brendon wondered if that was what Ryan had with Keltie; if Ryan expected Brendon to have that with someone else.

Brendon realized he was lonely—because fucking Ryan Ross had to bring it up—and jealous, yet he didn't know who to direct his jealousy to. He didn't know what he wanted to make him stop being lonely.

He simply was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen...I know I didn't say there was gonna be Pete/Mikey, but now there is. I'm sorry if you don't ship it (I'm sorry if you do ship it, quite frankly that ship hurts like hell). I'm honestly just winging this entire fic, so I didn't know it was gonna happen either.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything was beginning to eat away at Brendon.

It happened fast—Brendon was genuinely upset that he was alone.

 

He didn't rush getting up in the mornings, skipping breakfast most of the time.  He hated rehearsals.  His loneliness had really gotten to him, how repetitive his life was, how dance took up all of it.  He was passionate about dance, there was nothing he would rather spend his life doing, he would just rather share it with someone else.

 

He wondered if anyone would ever want to be with him, if he came off as someone with good qualities.  Pete liked him, but he didn't know if anyone else at the studio had ever wanted to get closer with him.  He became self conscious that he came off as cold and stuck up to everyone, like he deliberately was with Ryan.

 

As the week went on, he began to regret totally ruining any possible friendship with Ryan, since he had been awful to him since they'd met.  Perhaps they could've had a good relationship, had Brendon not been rude.

 

Maybe it wasn't worth it.

 

His thoughts exhausted him more than they should have, and he became quiet at rehearsals, not combatting Ryan like usual.  He felt bad about himself, and considered himself selfish for only feeling bad because of his loneliness.

 

He considered the fact that Ryan hadn't given him the time of day since the beginning.

 

“So, you won the battle and you've got the entrance,” Ryan said, the usual sneer in his voice.  “Now how much space is your— _ whatever _ going to take up?”

 

“I don't know, I can make it be, like, not a lot, if that'll frame the ensemble better.”

 

“Keep the attention off yourself until I come on to lead the show?” Ryan said.

 

“I guess the tap will be more impressive,” Brendon said, trying to make it sound sarcastic and biting, but it came out small and too truthful.

 

“Still gotta fit your part in somewhere,” Ryan said, casual.

 

Brendon played the music, piecing together bits of choreography he already had to fit the music and the timing.

 

“ _ Brush away the dirt and soot—”  _ Slow, graceful walks, eyes above the rows of seats.  “— _ brush away your tears _ —” Pique turn, pique turn, developpè, right leg fanning up by his nose and around to his ear.  “— _ cobwebs that aren't swept away—”  _ Assemble, assemble, tour jète.  “— _ hang around for years . . .”  _  Pirouette, six rotations.

 

Brendon walked to the front corner of the stage, while Ryan came down the middle aisle with the next part of the music.

 

They stopped right before the music picked up, faster and more upbeat.  “Finally got something done,” Ryan said.

 

Brendon cast his eyes downward.  “Still hate the sound of tap,” he muttered.

 

“And your turns are too excessive,” Ryan snapped back.

 

In class that night, back at the studio, Brendon worked hard, distracting him from his bad mood.

 

<<<<<>>>>>

 

Ryan's nagging was getting to Brendon.  He would start overthinking the piece, that maybe it was just a tap number, maybe he should go to Pete and ask to take his solo out, maybe it just wasn't his production.

 

Brendon tried to laugh every time Ryan messed up, make himself seem bitter as always.  It only worked sometimes.  Ryan didn't say anything about his change in demeanor, so Brendon thought he must've not noticed.

 

Ryan practiced a certain step over and over, aggressively, until he was sweating with the difficulty and frustration of not getting it right.  It had been days, and he was still messing it up.  Brendon habitually wanted to tell him he just wasn't good enough, simply to make him mad, but Brendon knew it wasn't true.  He couldn't bring himself to fight about it, and felt pity.

 

He was going through the same thing with his pirouettes.  He was having an off-day, where he kept falling out of the turns, and couldn't make it around six times.  While Ryan was trying to do whatever it was that he couldn't get right, Brendon was doing his turns over and over, trying to get them perfect again.

 

“Maybe you should consider taking them out of your choreography,” Ryan implied.  “They're not even good, anyway.  Too overdone.”

 

Brendon shrugged, and for a split second thought Ryan was right.  That it was too much.  That the attention was on himself too much.  That he should just blend in with the ensemble and leave it to Ryan.  He was overthinking Ryan's taunting, with how constant it was.

 

With stubbornness, he took off into another set of failed turns, forgetting to focus.  He almost fell.  Ryan scoffed from across the stage.

 

More rehearsals passed, more dance classes at the studio with Ryan's presence.  In ballet, Brendon wasn't as cruel when it came to teaching Ryan, and let his routines kick in to help Ryan actually learn something.  That demeanor made Ryan stay quiet, and just go with what Brendon told him.  They were much more professional at the studio, when they were around other people, than they were at rehearsals alone.

 

Ryan persistently made little comments on Brendon's dancing, how something looked bad or when Brendon messed something up.  Brendon stopped doing that back, and internalized his irritation with Ryan until he said something more biting about Ryan personally.

 

Brendon was always honest with his insults, when he told Ryan he wasn't a genuine person, how he was nice to others but let his true colors show when he didn't have to be professional.  Brendon voiced his thoughts that Ryan was only sweet to get Pete to like him.  If Brendon's arguments were honest, he thought to himself, then were Ryan's?  Did Ryan really think Brendon was weak, was a bad dancer, that his positions looked awful and Pete could've chosen anyone else to do it better?

 

Unfortunately, Brendon believed it.

 

At his apartment, he practiced more turns in his living room, watching his reflection in the windows.  Maybe he legs weren't hyperextended enough, maybe his arms didn't look strong, maybe he was tilting to one side too much, maybe his turns were only moderately good, maybe he should take them out of the dance.

 

If he wasn't good at dance anymore, then his motivation was gone.  He supposed he could be getting old for the sport, that his body was weakening and his career could end soon.  The thought terrified him.

 

More rehearsals everyday.  More slandering of his dance skills.  More details for Brendon to think about fucking up.  It became so overwhelming, it was pointless.

 

Ryan accomplished his tap steps.  Brendon mastered his turns and added another every now and then just to rile Ryan up.

 

Pete was Brendon's only form of kindness.  Brendon was worn thin by the time of night he showed up to Pete's class, but he looked forward to it.

 

Pete’s focus was buried in his phone until Brendon showed up.  “There's some talent,” Pete beamed as Brendon walked in the door.  Brendon smiled a bit and wandered closer to where Pete was planted in a chair.  “Tonight I want to work with you on some things you should've been learning lately, so let's start with double pull backs across the floor and then some wings.”

 

Brendon self-consciously looked down at his ballet attire—Pete wanted him to do tap?  “I . . . Uh—” Brendon stalled.

 

“Brendon, I'm just joking,” Pete chuckled.  “I want to get some  _ cabriolés  _ and barrel jumps in tonight.”

 

That was a relief.  Pete was offering something Brendon could do then.

 

He knew his practice was more flawed than usual, all due to his involuntary overthinking.  Pete was nice about it, and only gave him small things to correct the next time he tried.

 

Pete asked for him to show his turns at the end of class, and Brendon nailed eight pirouettes perfectly.  Pete smiled.  “Your turns are always so good,” Pete said.  Brendon could feel himself starting to blush.  “I don't think I've ever worked with a ballet dancer as good as you, if I can be honest.  I'm lucky that you chose to be with this company.”

 

Brendon was bashful about it, and Pete seemed surprised.

 

“What's this, B?  You know how good you are,” Pete scoffed.  “I've never seen you like this. You're always confident—I thought you might've had a bit of an ego going on there for awhile.”

 

“Any other dancer out there it just as good,” Brendon said with a shrug.

 

“No, you're exceptionally talented,” Pete insisted.  “Really.”

 

“Thank you,” Brendon said quietly.

 

Pete gawked at him as he left.

 

<<<<<>>>>>

 

Brendon's quads and calves were sore when he woke up.  He took some pain meds as soon as he got out of the shower.  It was from conditioning the night before—he had been too mentally preoccupied to realize he was overworking himself.

 

As the typical loathing for the rehearsal with Ryan set in, he had a sudden thought.  If Pete had given him his own piece, would he be rehearsing all day alone?  Would that really be better for him? At least Ryan was  _ there _ , even if he hated Brendon.  Brendon didn't have to choreograph a whole six minute piece alone.

 

For whatever reason, the traffic wasn't as bad as normal, and Brendon ended up getting to the theatre early.  He thought he would use the extra time to stretch, since his body was tight and tense.

 

He unlocked the heavy doors, taking a sip of his first soda of the day, and stopped before walking in.  The hesitation was caused by noise and movement in the theatre.

 

_ Click click scuff boom. _

 

Tap shoes.  Ryan was already there.

 

Brendon scowled to himself and went ahead in the theatre.

 

Ryan stopped moving at the sound of the door closing, and looked over and Brendon in the doorway.  He was out of breath, and something was missing from his face, Brendon realized, but he couldn't place it immediately.  It was his eyeliner, the lack of it.

 

“You're here early,” Brendon observed.

 

Ryan's head jerked a little bit.  “Yeah.  And I'll probably be here late.”  His voice was low, and moody, but it was more about the words he said than at Brendon.

 

“Why?”

 

“Don't wanna be at home right now,” Ryan said, tapping the toes of his shoe lightly on the stage; fidgeting.

 

“Oh.”  Brendon didn't ask further, instead sitting on the edge of the stage and going through his bag.  He was procrastinating warming up, as he knew his body was sore and it would be extra pain to start ballet.

 

Ryan wasn't playing any music, and it was silent aside from his few tap steps behind Brendon.  “We need to get some mirrors in here,” Ryan murmured.

 

“That would be nice,” Brendon agreed, fumbling with the CD case of the Mary Poppins soundtrack in his bag.

 

“Aren't you gonna warm up or whatever?” Ryan asked.

 

“Yeah.  I'll get to it.”

 

“Why?” Ryan mocked, as Brendon had said the same thing to him earlier.

 

“I don't feel like hearing you bitch at me about everything I do,” Brendon said.

 

“I'll shut up, then,” Ryan grumbled.

 

Brendon frowned slightly, sending the strangeness of Ryan's mood.  He wasn't even mad at Brendon, sounding more bitter and self-loathing than anything.  Brendon stood up with a stifled groan, the muscles in his legs burning just from that. 

 

Per usual, Brendon didn't say much to Ryan, the only difference being in that Ryan didn't try to start anything with him.

 

Ryan didn't fight him for a place on stage; for room to do some dramatic dance step.  He didn't start the music over in the middle of Brendon trying to rehearse.  Most noticeably to Brendon, because he'd become so self-conscious, was that Ryan didn't insult Brendon's dancing.

 

Brendon ignored his curiosity of what was causing Ryan's strange mood when he had hope that maybe his dancing wasn't so bad that day.

 

Ryan stepped back to watch Brendon's choreography by himself for a few moments.  When Brendon got to the turns Ryan always made a big deal about, he accidentally overpowered the beginning, and did an extra rotation.

 

Ryan hummed a mean laughter for the first time that day.  “Those things are still shit, huh?” He said.  He had a small smirk plastered on his face.

 

Brendon stopped and sighed in frustration.  At this rate, he would noticeably fuck up on show night in front of the audience.  “Are they really that bad?” Brendon asked, looking down.

 

“What?” Ryan's smirk fell, and he looked confused by Brendon's words.

 

“My turns, are they—are they really just bad? Like, I know they're not great or perfect, but should I take them out, or—?”

 

“Oh, no, no, no,” Ryan rushed.  “They look really good.  I mean, I don't know that much about ballet, but I've seen competitions and stuff, and you're great in comparison to that.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Yes, yes.  You haven't really thought anything I've been saying is true, right?  You're an amazing dancer.  I don't—” Ryan's eyebrows furrowed, visibly thinking.  “I don't actually hate you.  We’re just fucking with each other, just to, like, get through rehearsals.”

 

“Okay,” was all Brendon could manage.

 

“Brendon, is that why you've been so quiet lately?  Holy shit, hey, you should've said something.  I'm—I'm sorry.”

 

Brendon shook his head.  “No, no, I'm sorry.  I started all of it.  You don't seem like a really bad person, I don't know why I was so quick to—”

 

“It's okay, it's fine.  Let's not hate each other, you know?”

  
Brendon laughed a bit, relieved.  It somehow felt like a portion of his soreness was gone, and he felt his heart in his throat, pounding in his stretched lips.  “Yeah, sounds good, Ryan.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Respect is an art of its own.

“Shuffle ball-change.  Four separate sounds,” Ryan said, standing in the studio, right in front of Brendon.  Ryan picked up his right foot by no more than an inch, scuffed the ball forward, and then back.  With the same foot, he stepped behind himself, and stomped the opposite foot down in the front.  He then did the same thing on the other side, all of it in less than a couple seconds.

 

Brendon repeated what Ryan had done, just not as fast, and the sounds weren't as defined.  He looked to Ryan for approval, and he nodded with a smile.  “Nice.  You're not that bad at this.  Just keep practicing,” Ryan said, moving on to the next student.

 

It was still strange to be taking a tap class, especially with Ryan teaching it.  He was still a beginner, for sure, but Ryan said he caught on quickly.  He was slowly getting used to the sound of tap, and it wasn't so irritating.  Not when he understood the work that went into it—saw the true talent Ryan had.

 

Every now and then, Brendon was in awe by some move Ryan pulled off.  It was the same for Ryan, though, as he typically watched Brendon's turns, saying something along the lines of, “I don't know how you can even do that.”

 

Brendon was feeling significantly better about himself due to it, but he remained quiet throughout the day.  Ryan initiated conversations sometimes, and Brendon liked that.  He just didn't do it himself.  It was like Ryan was the most talkative person, either, but his presence in Brendon's life had grown to be a positive thing.  He was always pleasant, with dashings of sarcasm here and there.

 

It was second nature for them to tease each other, but it wasn't with any meaning.  They were able to laugh about it, make light of it, although Brendon suspected Ryan still felt bad.

 

“You know,” Ryan told him, “you don't have any of that stuck up ballet-obsessed personality I thought you did.”

 

“Maybe the ballet-obsessed part is true,” Brendon joked.

 

“Well, it makes sense.  You're damn good at it.”

 

Brendon shrugged.  Ryan shook his head at Brendon's denial.

 

When Ryan wasn't meticulously going through the piece, he texted his girlfriend, Keltie, and talked about her to Brendon.  He told Brendon how pretty she was, and how he didn't know where he would be without her.  “I really think she completes me,” Ryan said, with a crooked grin.

 

Something about that unsettled Brendon.

 

Brendon learned that Ryan and Keltie had been dating for almost a year, she moved into his apartment only a few weeks ago, and that she had absolutely no interest in dance at all.  In fact, she had only been to one of Ryan's performances.

 

Brendon thought that was rude, but then again, he didn't have a right to have an opinion on relationships.  But, really, if he had a significant other, say, Ryan, he would feel that it was necessary to support him.

 

It was an interesting thing to muse about.

 

Ryan treated Keltie extremely well, simply adored her—but from what Brendon heard, Keltie didn't deserve Ryan.  He was only sweet when it came to her.

 

“I know you said you don't have a girlfriend—” Ryan said, and Brendon was surprised, kind of glad, that he remembered.  “—but do you have roommates or anything?”

 

Brendon was a bit embarrassed when he shook his head no.  “It's just me,” he replied.

 

“That's fine,” Ryan said.  “I think you should really have a connection with someone before you live together, or else it'll be too hard.  You'll just constantly be on each other's nerves.”

 

“I would be afraid of that,” Brendon said.

 

“You wanna know a secret?  I'm still not sure Keltie and I are ready for that.”

 

“What do you mean?” Brendon asked, standing still.  “You already live with her.”

 

“I know, I know, but I still don't spend that much time at home.”

 

Brendon realized that both he and Ryan spent more time at the studio than at home, more time with  _ each other _ than at home.

 

“You'll probably be fine,” Brendon managed, voice flat.  “You love her.”

 

Ryan nodded in agreement.

 

The words were sour on Brendon's tongue; he felt bad for Ryan.

 

<<<<<>>>>>

 

Pete walked into Brendon's ballet class at a moment where Brendon was holding Ryan's leg up, one hand grasping his calf and the other his hip.  Professionally, Pete barely took notice to it.  “Hey, Brendon, Ryan,” Pete greeted.

 

“Hey,” they both said simultaneously.  Brendon dropped Ryan's leg, and Ryan stumbled a bit, grabbing the barre for support.

 

“Sorry to interrupt your class, but I was wondering if it would be okay for me to come see  _ Step In Time _ tomorrow, down in Tacoma?” Pete asked.

 

Ryan and Brendon looked at each other.  “Yeah . . .” Ryan said.

 

“We’re not all the way done with it, but it's getting close,” Brendon said.

 

“Okay, that's fine.  I just want to make sure everything's going smoothly,” Pete rushed.

 

“I think it is,” Ryan replied.

 

“Good, alright, I'll talk to you about it more tomorrow.  Sorry again.”  With that, Pete left.

 

“Resume the combination,” Brendon instructed to the class.  He stayed at Ryan's side, watching Ryan attempt to raise his leg behind him, and keep both legs straight.  Ryan looked to be all long limbs and no balance or flexibility, which was amusing to Brendon in a way that wasn't even bitter, more endearing—too endearing—and he couldn't bite back a grin.

 

Brendon knew it was useless to try to instruct Ryan with words, and he held Ryan's leg in his hands once more.  “Pete’s a nice dude,” Ryan commented, while Brendon ran his hand over his thigh.

 

“We’re lucky he's our boss,” Brendon said, taking his time to press Ryan's hip down, leveling his bones on both sides.

 

“Him and his boyfriend are so cute,” Ryan said.

 

“Mikey?  Yeah, they're great together.”

 

It was quiet again as Brendon focused on repositioning Ryan's limbs until he looked like a perfect ballet dancer, left leg extended for an  _ arabesque. _  Brendon sculpted him, made his arms stay in fourth position, but he figured out that something was still off.  Ryan's back leg was too low, not as high as any of the other girls in his class, but Brendon knew exactly how to change that.

 

He rounded Ryan's body once more, Ryan's eyes following him, and wrapped his fingers around Ryan's ankle.  He pulled up, making Ryan's whole leg go higher—

 

There was a loud popping noise, and a wince from Ryan, to which Brendon immediately let go of him.  In a split second, Brendon figured out that the popping was just Ryan's hip, and it wasn't a big deal when it came to dancers.  The wince was probably just from the noise itself, not from Ryan being in pain, but just the thought of that was what made Brendon back off.

 

Brendon wasn't like that with any of his other dancers.  He liked to push them, test their flexibility until they were as far as they could go.  He knew this often times put them in lots of pain, but that was the key to improvement in ballet.  Brendon's stomach plummeted when he thought of putting Ryan through that.

 

Although it wasn't likely, if the small noise that had emitted from Ryan had been one of pain, Brendon felt guilty for it.  “You okay?” He asked Ryan, not touching him at all.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryan said, obviously not phased by it at all.

 

“Alright.  Keep—keep working.”

 

“That's a weak demand, Urie,” Ryan bantered.

 

Brendon chuckled and changed the music to start the next combination.

 

The rest of the night, he felt disconcerted about Ryan being in pain.  He didn't like the thought of it, not with how well he knew Ryan's face, and how he didn't want to see it be anything other than pleased.  With that mindset of Brendon's, Ryan shouldn't have been in his ballet class, because pain was a requirement of all that.  Yet there was a whiny voice in Brendon's head that told him his ballet classes would be boring without Ryan in them now, and Brendon found that he really liked having Ryan there.

 

This was troubling—Brendon supposed it was because he viewed Ryan as an equal, as a friend, not a student of his.

 

<<<<<>>>>>

 

Both Ryan and Brendon were at the theater before Pete in the morning, which was nice.  It gave them time to warm up and run through the dance once.  They felt confident with the piece they had so far, but Ryan voiced that he was a tad bit nervous to show Pete.

 

“I'm just afraid he’ll want to change everything,” Ryan said.

 

“Yeah, that would be bad.”

 

“And I hate just dancing for one person.  It's harder that way.  I think it's easier, less nerve wracking, to be in front of, like, three thousand people.”

 

Brendon understood that feeling all too well.  He smiled in sympathy.  “Hey, at least you won't be totally alone.”

 

Ryan smiled back, close lipped.  “Yeah, you're right.”

 

When Pete showed up, Brendon did most of the talking, which surprised even himself.  He expected Ryan to take over, since the piece was so dominantly tap, Ryan's specialty.  Instead, Brendon introduced the number, explained bits of their logic when it came to spacing, and told Pete how to get the music playing through the theater.

 

Pete took a seat in the fifth row back from the stage, house lights on, as Ryan and Brendon performed the number.  They stayed on separate sides of the stage, unless one of them was taking center stage for something to be a focal point.

 

Brendon saw that Pete was taking notes as he watched them, which was always a sign that changes were to be made in the piece.  He could only hope it wasn't going to completely erase all of his and Ryan's choreography.  Especially Ryan's.  Brendon couldn't help but think that Ryan's tap work in the piece was much more meticulous than Brendon's ballet.

 

When they finished through what choreography they had completed, Pete stood up, carrying his notebook.  “That was impressive.  I don't get the vibe that you're trying to outdo each other anymore, and that alone amazes me,” Pete began.

 

Ryan and Brendon looked at each other.  “We’re past that point in our lives now,” Ryan said, a sparkle in his eyeliner catching Brendon's attention.

 

“That's good, too,” Pete said.  “So now that I know that, is it safe to say you'll be comfortable interacting with each other more in this?  Because that's what you really need.  All your choreography is good, but it's looks kind of . . . boring.”

 

Neither of them were insulted by that, as dance instructors always had to be blunt to make something look interesting.  “We can do that,” Brendon said.

 

“Sweet.  Now—” Pete climbed up on stage, standing between Ryan and Brendon.  “—when Brendon's doing his series of arabesque turns, I want him to come over in front of you, Ryan, and turn around your left shoulder, and you're gonna do some wings as you reach out and try to catch him . . .”

 

Pete corrected less parts than Brendon had expected, and it was all mainly just changing the direction of his movements so he was closer to Ryan.

 

This wasn't really a problem—the only difference it made was that they would have to really rehearse the piece together, so they knew how to not accidentally kick or hit each other with the dance movements.  Brendon wouldn't mind it; it meant more conversation with Ryan.

 

He looked forward to it.

 

“And now, I know you haven't choreographed through the end, but I have a perfect image I want you two to freeze in before the curtain closes,” Pete said.  “The last words of the piece are, ‘ _ Never need a reason if you step in time! _ ’ And that's four counts.  You have the first three of those four counts to run to center stage, and then about half a count to hit a pose.  Do you think you can do that?”

 

They both nodded, though Brendon thought it really depended on what the pose was.

 

“So, Dallon and Breezy are going to be more on the quarter stage area, framing you,” Pete explained.  “I want Ryan on stage right and Brendon on stage left,” Pete read from his notebook, “and Ryan's going to do a simple heel dig to the side and hold it.”

 

Ryan did so, extending his leg to the side, resting his heel on the ground with the toe up.

 

“Brendon, I want you to do a, like, side  _ attitude _ with a flexed foot,  _ relevè.” _

 

As soon as he began to attempt it, Pete cut in with more directions.  “Hold hands so Brendon doesn't fall.”

 

Ryan automatically reached out for Brendon's hand, slipping their palms together.  Now Brendon tried the pose Pete gave him, balancing on the ball of one foot with the other leg high in the air, bent awkwardly.  It was too difficult to balance, and Ryan struggled to support his weight with just their palms.

 

“Stop, stop,” Pete said, laughing.  “You have to lace fingers, guys.  That grip is what's gonna give you leverage to pull this off.”

 

They only did as they were told, looking down when their fingers fumbled.  Ryan's hands enveloped Brendon's in coldness, to which Brendon noticed how long and thin Ryan's fingers were—spindly, like the rest of him.  There was his signature blue eyeliner smeared on one of his fingernails, and his veins were strong.  Brendon's hand looked small and childlike inside Ryan's hold, but this was only somewhat comforting—

 

“Brendon, look up, out to the audience,” Pete said, making Brendon look away from his and Ryan's laced fingers.  “Now try.”

 

Brendon managed the pose much easier this time, and Ryan's grip wasn't overly right to hold him up.  It was only there to keep Brendon supported, but something just made their hands Brendon's focus.  He supposed it was the unfamiliarity of it in a dance, of having someone else keep him balanced.

 

Again, this was not a bad thing.

 

“Got it, Ballerina-Boy Urie?” Ryan whispered.

 

“Ballerina-Boy Urie,” Pete repeated.  “I like that.”

 

Brendon groaned.

 

“Smile, you two,” Pete instructed, and they did, still holding their positions.  Pete snapped a picture, and hopped off the stage.

 

“This piece is going to be outstanding.  That's all I have for you.  Good work.  I was kind of afraid it wasn't going to work out with you hating each other at the beginning, but I'm sure it'll only get better for you guys from here on out,” Pete said.  Before either of them could get a word out, Pete’s phone rang.  “Oh, that's Mikey calling.  I'll see you later.  Make sure to eat something!”

 

With that, Pete had left the theater.

 

As the two of them were left alone once more, they choreographed the rest of the number rather quickly.  They came up with it faster, as they had to work together to keep the dancing interactive.  Brendon didn't know how he felt to have Ryan be the thing he whipped his head around to spot in all his turns, the forced focus he had to keep with rotation after rotation.

 

At the end of it, when they laced fingers and created the picturesque image, Brendon couldn't help to think he was in Keltie’s place, or just a glimpse of that, with Ryan thumbing his knuckle occasionally.

  
Not that Brendon could find anything negative about that in the middle of a number.  It was too much thought for him when he had to keep every part of his body under perfect control.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Realizations are too distracting to happen in the middle of a dance number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's been so long since an update. I'm bad at my scheduling with this story.

Somehow, in some way, Brendon knew the day would come where he would have to meet Ryan's girlfriend.  He silently and subconsciously didn't want that to happen, as it was bad enough he had to hear Ryan talk about her, but he couldn't figure out why the concept had a negative connotation.

 

She didn't seem like a totally horrible person, aside from some of the bitchy things she said to Ryan, the way she didn't support his dance career emotionally, or how she had the ability to put Ryan in a bad mood for a day.  Ryan loved her, and that should've been enough to please Brendon.  He had some grudge against her for every time he heard she fought with Ryan, as he always sided with Ryan—as a friend, he could always agree with Ryan's viewpoints, and believe Keltie was wrong.

 

Ryan told Brendon he appreciated the support, and that sometimes, Brendon was the only thing that could get him to stop thinking about his fights with Keltie.  Ryan said it was just the hardships of living together, and they got over it every time.

 

Brendon couldn't help but wonder when their split was going to happen.  They couldn't go on fighting like that.  There was rarely anything he could do to make Ryan feel better, and that was even worse.

 

In tap, Ryan told him.  He was standing at the front of the room with him, watching the ensemble run through  _ Step in Time _ , and it was going well, nearly perfect.  Pleased with this, Ryan was able to not pay attention to a nitpicking level.  He leaned over to whisper in Brendon's ear, “Keltie’s coming to rehearsal with me tomorrow.”

 

The only reason Brendon even acted surprised was because Keltie didn't care about Ryan’s dancing.  He wondered how she was going to handle a whole day of watching an unpolished dance come together.

 

“Cool,” Brendon said.

 

“Yeah, her car broke down, she's getting some work done on it, so I figured I’d just bring her to rehearsal with me.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Ryan seemed excited about it, which probably meant  _ she _ wasn't dreading it—if she was happy, then so was Ryan.  Or whatever.  Brendon hated it when Ryan had to get all sappy about her.  It didn't suit him well.

 

That was Brendon's current reasoning behind it.

 

The reason he despised Keltie, and Ryan's relationship with her, seemed to change on a day to day basis.  It could be something Keltie said, or something Ryan said about how much he loved her, or something vague about their relationship problems.  Brendon hated all of it.

 

He supposed he was jealous that he didn't have that kind of relationship with someone, still.  He wanted to have the kind of feelings for someone that Ryan had for Keltie.  Maybe he could, if he was more social with people, but it was difficult.

 

Everyone at the studio had someone, had it all figured out, and Brendon was simply winging his way through the relationships he had.

 

That was enough of that thought, though.  Brendon didn't like thinking about where he’d gone wrong in life, and what would happen if he were to get into another relationship.

 

Ryan picked up on Brendon being distant in tap after that conversation, although Brendon was trying his best not to be.  He was too lost in thought, about  _ Ryan and Keltie _ of all things.

 

Stupid thing for Brendon to feel unmistakable jealousy over.

 

“You alright?” Ryan asked him, catching him by the shoulder before he went to Pete’s office.

 

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, just tired today.”  It wasn't a complete lie.  He was mentally tired, and he’d had an energy drink before tap, so that was crashing on him.  Physically, though, he was fine.

 

“Alright, well, have a good night.”

 

“Yeah, you too.”

 

Way worse than him, Pete was exhausted when Brendon started his class.  He nursed a hot coffee, even at nine p.m.  It was Brendon's turn to ask him if he was alright, since that was unusual, even for Pete.

 

“I'm just getting too old for all this,” Pete said, obviously needing sleep.

 

“Okay . . .”

 

“Do some . . .  _ Tour jètes _ ,” Pete said, yawning in the middle of his thought.

 

Brendon did so, stumbling and nearly falling when he landed his first one.  That was horrible, and he was ready for his critique from Pete, but all he got was, “Good, good.”

 

Puzzled, Brendon did another one, which was as perfect as he could've made it.  Pete wasn't even watching him.

 

“You know what, Brendon, you're a really good dancer, I have faith in you to be fine if I let you go home right now.  I think we should end rehearsal for tonight and just go home, yeah?”

 

“Yeah, Pete, sure.”

 

“Great, I'll see you whenever,” Pete said, and walked out of the studio before even Brendon.

 

Brendon was curious as to what was even going on.  He didn't know.  He never knew.  Not anymore.  Not since he started rehearsals with Ryan.  Amusedly, he thought of the line from the musical—” _ Ever since that Poppins woman came into my home,  _ things  _ have started happening to me!” _

 

<<<<<>>>>>

 

Keltie was a pretty girl, Brendon supposed, but Ryan was prettier, in a sense.  Ryan's eyeliner was more elaborate, he looked younger, was generally more attractive . . . Or maybe Brendon was just far more adjusted to seeing Ryan around.

 

She was extremely nice to Brendon, sugary sweet, which temporarily improved Brendon's view of her.  She wasn't a bad person.  Brendon believed the only problem was that her personality clashed with Ryan's.  Brendon could see how they were both moody and emotional.

 

Ryan spent a good half hour talking to Keltie while Brendon was warming up.  Their conversation was pleasant and polite, but it seemed like small talk.  Brendon wondered if they sat in silence a lot when they were together.

 

“So, are you gonna dance for me?” Keltie asked Ryan.

 

“Yeah, I guess so,” Ryan answered, casting a look over his shoulder at Brendon.  “If Ballerina-Boy over there is warmed up . . .?” Ryan smiled, and for once, at that nickname, Brendon smiled back.

 

“Whenever you're ready,” Brendon said.

 

Before going up to the stage to join Brendon, Ryan kissed Keltie’s lips, and Brendon felt hot, bitter anger lash up in his chest—immediately, he felt guilty for it.  Ryan, one of his closest friends, was happy, and Brendon was mad about it.  He acted like he could brush it off easily enough, as if maybe he thought to himself that it wasn't a big deal, then it wouldn't be.

 

The dance routine should have distracted him either way.

 

It wasn't as easy as he thought it would be to shake the thought of Ryan and Keltie simply kissing.  Was it really necessary that they kissed right then? Brendon doubted it.  Keltie was just a person, and Brendon sometimes—most of the time—wondered why Ryan stayed with her.  She was causing more stress than their relationship was worth, mainly for Brendon, more so than for Ryan.  He couldn't stop thinking about it, allowing muscle memory to be the only thing that guided him through the dance.

 

Brendon was purposely looking over the seats of the audience, to the back wall of the theater, to avoid seeing Keltie, and he noticed Ryan was looking directly at him through most of it.  When they locked fingers at the very end, it felt like a breath of fresh air.  Brendon was even more relieved when it was over.

 

Keltie hadn’t been paying much attention, but she clapped for them when the music stopped.  Ryan didn't acknowledge it, instead focusing on Brendon and asking, “Are you okay?  You seemed pretty unfocused or out of it, I don't know.”

 

“I'm just a little nervous,” Brendon lied with a chuckle.  “It's the hardest to perform to a crowd of one, you know.  Were you watching me or something?”  He attempted to keep his tone lighthearted, but it was wavering a bit—he was thinking about Ryan and Keltie still, Ryan and Keltie, Ryan and Keltie.  Would Ryan be just as happy without her?  He seemed the happiest in a pair of tap shoes, onstage . . .

 

“Of course I was watching you.  I almost always am, just for the dance, and, uh, I'm kinda fascinated by you, Brendon,” Ryan said in return.

 

“Oh,” was all Brendon found he could say.  He wanted Ryan to continue that thought, to elaborate on it, but it wasn't like Brendon could ask him to.  They made eye contact for a few seconds, Ryan's wide, round eyes seeming to blink exaggeratedly.

 

Ryan eventually looked away, and out at Keltie in the audience.  “What did you think, babe?” He asked, and Brendon did his best not to cringe.

 

“It was good!” Keltie replied, but it was vague.

 

“Pete said we should interact with each other more,” Ryan said.  Keltie smiled and nodded, and for a moment, Brendon doubted Keltie even knew who Pete was.

 

“Yeah, he's right,” Keltie said.

 

“Do you think we should do more?” Ryan asked, glancing at Brendon again.

 

“Yeah, I guess, if you think so!” Keltie said.

 

Brendon internally went through the routine, picturing it in his mind, and thought of all the places where he and Ryan could be closer.  There were several, but it would take drastic changes in his choreography, and Ryan's, he was sure.

 

“Hey, Brendon, what if we . . .” Ryan trailed off for a moment, then continued, “Okay, so, you know when, at the end, kinda, we go to separate sides of the stage?  Well, what if we just came to each other instead . . .” Ryan proceeded to explain how they could strike another pose, facing each other.

 

They took center stage, Brendon following Ryan's direction.  Ryan fumbled his way through ballet terms for Brendon, making it all sound more complicated than it was.  It was simply an  _ arabesque _ , to the back, one of his legs lifted straight behind him.  That part was simple, until Ryan reached out and took both of his hands.

 

Ryan's eyes were casted to Brendon's feet, then directly to their hands, fingers tightly laced.  “Can you go up on your toes?” Ryan asked.  Brendon hadn't even realized he was standing flat-footed, and immediately raised up onto the ball of his foot.  “Okay, got it?”

 

Brendon was slightly startled by having Ryan's voice so close to him, suddenly, and looked up to see Ryan's eyes inches from his own.  “Yeah, this is good,” Brendon said.  The thought of Keltie being right out in the house, probably watching them, was nagging at him for some reason, above anything else, unfortunately.

 

Ryan didn't seem to think much of it, not moving for a few moments, their hands still touching.  Brendon could tell from the look on his face that he was thinking about choreography from there.  “Okay, let's, uh, try the dance before this part and see if it just flows in,” Ryan suggested.

 

“Sure,” Brendon said, trying to shake the thought of Keltie, and the feeling of Ryan's fingers between his.

 

Keltie got to have Ryan all the time, as his girlfriend, she was able to hold Ryan's hand whenever she wanted to, every moment they were together, even.  Brendon was guessing that she didn't take advantage of that very much, from what Ryan said about her.  He couldn't see why, why Keltie wouldn't be all over Ryan—he was a good person, and Brendon thought he would be a remarkable lover.

 

Something told him that it wasn't his place to think about Ryan like that, which unsettled him.  He was simply considering their relationship, but that was a faint thought.  Truly, he was thinking about Ryan, what it felt like to hold his hand, what it felt like to have his face inches from his own.  He bit his lip—fuck, that wasn't a good thought, he supposed.  Well, it was a good thought, a  _ great _ thought, actually, but it wasn't something he should be thinking about.

 

Ryan and Keltie were perfectly happy in their relationship, and Brendon should have been happy with that too.

 

But.  But Brendon had grown fond of seeing Ryan, grown fond of his mannerisms and his voice and his face and his fucking tap dancing.  He desperately tried to tell himself again that they were friends, close friends, and that was it, that was why he was having this rush of affectionate feelings.  That couldn't be it, not with where Brendon's thoughts were taking him.

 

He was thinking about how comforting it was to hold Ryan's hand, how it was something he looked forward to now.  To be able to be having a conversation with Ryan and reach for his hand was something Brendon couldn't do, but the temptation was starting to creep up on him.  His favorite part of the dance routine was when they locked hands happily at the end.

 

Ryan could speak so highly of Keltie, calling her beautiful, thinking of her like she was the stars in his sky.  He remembered all the small details about her, thinks she liked and the names of people she hated in high school; the gossip at her work, in which he always took her side on things.  Ryan loved her, loved her, and Brendon fell out of his turns, let his arms slip out of proper position when he thought of it being his own name on Ryan's lips.

 

There Brendon was, pondering about knowing Ryan that deeply, and feeling so interested in him.  This was bad, this was bad—he couldn't have Ryan like that, he could be Ryan's friend and support him, but, no, he couldn't  _ date _ Ryan, that was out of the question.

 

A ridiculous concept, Brendon decided.  He didn't have feelings for Ryan specifically, he was just lonely, as he’d determined.  There was no part of him that wished he was in Keltie’s place.  He was only jealous that they had a relationship.  That was all he wanted.

 

No, he wanted that with Ryan.

 

Brendon was so torn, so distracted.  At the last moment, he remembered the bit of choreography he and Ryan had just added in, and ran to him from across the stage.  They seemed too close together for Brendon's comfort now, fingers woven.  He avoided Ryan's eyes in favor of the audience for a moment, slowly rising up on his toes.  His grip on Ryan's fingers was loose, perhaps too loose.

 

Too intrigued by his thoughts of Ryan, Brendon couldn't resist looking at his face.  His eyeliner was faded and slightly smudged, the blue of it pale and blending with his skin.  His bangs were crooked and covering one eyebrow, and the hair looked soft and feathery; Brendon wanted to run his fingers through it, just once, just to see what it felt like.  Ryan's lips were parted and a perfect shade of pink, he was slightly winded, and Brendon thought about leaning in, pressing his lips to Ryan's.

 

It was too shocking, too close to happening, that Brendon forgot what he was doing.  With no focus, he promptly fell forward, not so softly.

 

Ryan caught him, arms around him and pressed against his chest.

 

Brendon inhaled, not in any pain, just shock that it happened, and Ryan helped him stand upright.  “Are you okay?” Ryan asked.  The music played continuously, but they were both ignoring it.  Brendon was hyper-aware of Ryan's hands on his biceps, steadying him.

 

“Yeah, sorry, I just lost my balance,” Brendon mumbled, then cleared his throat.

 

“Alright, then.  You should probably drink something.  You haven't had anything the whole time we’ve been here,” Ryan said.

  
Brendon nodded and fled the stage.  It was so much easier when he was convinced he hated Ryan.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Real effort was Brendon putting other's emotions over his own.

In the morning, Brendon got ready for the day, and stared himself down in the mirror.  He felt the need to prepare for seeing Ryan all day, both physically and emotionally.

 

His mind had been scrambled, making him feel frazzled, since he'd hit a brick wall of realization—realization that he was falling for his colleague, his dance partner.  There was no way around it.  Brendon knew he couldn't just ignore it, or push it to the back of his mind, since every one of his thoughts and desperate attempts to do just that ended with Ryan Ross.

 

Ryan was just so easy to think about.  Brendon found himself reflecting on simple conversations they'd had together, or the way he taught a class, or how it felt when they held hands onstage.  He couldn't help but feel smug at the thought of Ryan getting flustered in his ballet classes, how Brendon had to hold him by the legs to get him in the correct positions.  How Brendon had missed it, the way he liked the feeling of touching Ryan, of being that close to him, he had no idea.  It was so obvious that he had a crush, that he liked Ryan in a way that was a lot more than just friends.

 

It was fucking aggravating.

 

Brendon felt so stupid, so idiotic for even allowing himself to get involved this far in Ryan's life.  He could have stayed distant through their entire project, and avoided any of these feelings, then after the show was over and closed, they wouldn't ever be in contact again.  That seemed awful, though, the idea of Ryan not being in his life at all.  They were friends now, at least, so Brendon felt secure in knowing that things would remain that way, even if he was falling for him.

 

With all the ideas buzzing in his head, he had to be careful around Ryan.  He couldn't just tell Ryan how he felt, couldn't stop and admire Ryan's smile whenever he felt like it, and Brendon felt tortured.  It was even worse, knowing he probably would never be able to.  Ryan was in love with Keltie, and it could ruin whatever relationship Ryan and Brendon did have, if Brendon said anything.

 

On top of that, was Ryan even gay?  To any extent?  Ryan could be single and as lonely as Brendon, and he might not even consider Brendon then.  Brendon felt so hopeless.

 

He couldn't come off as awkward, either.  He couldn't let himself act like he was crushing as hard as he was—which was pathetically, he could admit—because Ryan could never know.

 

With that, he knew it didn't matter how hard he tried to get Ryan to notice him as a contender for a boyfriend, but it didn't stop him from trying.  He studied his appearance in the mirror, before leaving for the theater, to see if he could improve anything about himself.

 

His hair was as styled as it could be, but he spent several minutes trying to smooth it all out, make sure there wasn't even a single strand out of line.  He stepped back from the counter, looking at his body, dressed in his usual tight black clothing.  In a curious way, he ran his hands down his torso, feeling the solid bone of his ribcage, the dip of his waist, and finally, the flare of his hips.  He had obvious curves, which definitely wasn't a bad thing, now, if he was trying to get Ryan to notice him.

 

Those damn hips were the reason he wasn't dancing with a bigger company, why he was teaching ballet more than performing.  If he was more narrow, had less of an ass, he probably could have gone international with ballet, or at least been with one of the more major companies in the country.  Yet, he couldn't be too bitter—he was proud of where he’d gotten in his dance career, and he wouldn't exactly desire to change anything about his figure.

 

Ryan had more of the body type, to become one of the legendary ballet dancers, to excel in the dance world, Brendon thought.  He couldn't get the thought of Ryan out of his head.

 

If Ryan really was straight—or at least thought that he was—then Brendon's slightly feminine curves were more of a benefit than anything.

 

Brendon flexed his abs, able to see their outline through his skin-tight shirt, and nodded to himself.  He was toned, but not buff—he didn't have a bulky frame at all.  This was his top condition, this was as attractive as he was going to get, no matter what he did.  All he could do was hope that by some freak chance, Ryan would take interest in him, and something— _ anything _ —could happen from there.

 

He considered the sticks of eyeliner he had for stage makeup at the last minute, but decided against it.  That would be too much, too noticeable, and he didn't want to come off as trying too hard.

 

The eyeliner made him think of Ryan, his hazel eyes and glittery makeup, and it brightened his mood a little bit.  Just a little bit.  Okay, maybe enough for him to rush out the door, curse at himself for being late, and feel more motivated than ever to rehearse a piece of choreography.

 

Brendon left his Seattle apartment to face the traffic of his drive.  Ryan was the only thing on his mind, which was torturous and pleasant all at once.  It would be so nice if they were dating, if he were in Keltie’s place.  He would be able to sit in traffic to the theater with Ryan beside him, talking and laughing, the way they did when they had conversations all the time.  They would be good together, in Brendon's opinion.

 

Of course, he was a little biased.

 

He felt a swoop in his stomach of undeniable excitement when he arrived at the theater, all because Ryan would be there, and Brendon was eager to hear his voice.  Yet his mood was killed at how Ryan would probably just talk about him and Keltie, how much he loved her, and Brendon knew he didn't have a chance at anything, no matter how much effort he put in.

 

Brendon shivered as he stood outside of his car, the air nearly freezing, the sky a dark gray.  Everything about the theater seemed warm and welcoming, so Brendon enthusiastically let himself in.  He sighed in relief at the warmth, a smile coming to his face at the familiar feel of the place.

 

The remnants of a grin remained on his face when he entered the house, met with the sight of Ryan sitting on the edge of the stage, legs dangling off.  He leaned back on his hands, staring up at the ceiling until the door snapped shut behind Brendon.  That got his attention, and he looked over at Brendon.

 

Brendon was surprised he wasn't up and choreographing, or practicing, or tapping at all.  It was unusual for Brendon to see Ryan sitting still, alone, quiet, and that was how Brendon could feel something off in the air.

 

Ryan blinked up at Brendon from the stage while Brendon stepped closer.  Subtly, Brendon took in the details of Ryan's face.  The boy wasn't wearing any eyeliner, which was, again, something of a rarity.  That typically meant he had been in a rush to leave the house, which was always because of a fight with Keltie.  Brendon sighed at the realization that he was going to hear about it, and he hated hearing Ryan's plans to apologize to her, make amends.

 

His hair was a messier than usual, but it still suited him.  It wasn't attention grabbing, and Brendon's eyes easily wandered down his face.  Ryan licked his lips before speaking, and Brendon found himself watching the movement, before snapping his stare up to Ryan's eyes.  “Thought you wouldn't come today,” Ryan said, voice low.

 

“Sorry, I was running late,” Brendon said, smiling.  Ryan's mood was dark, and he was permeating some negative emotion.  Brendon didn't like it, would prefer almost any other emotion of Ryan's, so he himself would do his best to stay cheerful.

 

“That's weird,” Ryan frowned.

 

Brendon shrugged.  “Yeah, I guess.”

 

Ryan stared down at his tap shoes for a moment, then took a deep breath.  “We should probably start working,” Ryan said.

 

“Uh, yeah, sure, let me warm up some,” Brendon replied.  He scrambled to pull his ballet shoes out of his bag, the soft black leather malleable under his fingers, and put them on.

 

“I forgot you had to do all that,” Ryan sighed.  That was even more strange—Brendon spent half an hour warming up everyday before they started on their choreography.

 

“Yeah, well.  I won't take very long,” Brendon said, letting out a chuckle; it was a nervous sound, as he looked at Ryan with concern.

 

“I know,” Ryan said, his voice even quieter than before.

 

Brendon couldn't take it, his curiosity too much for him.  “Are you okay?” He asked, climbing up onto the stage.

 

“Yes.  No—” Ryan rubbed a hand over his face—“I don't know.”

 

“What's up?” Brendon asked, sitting down beside Ryan.  He wondered if he was overstepping his boundary.  Brendon wasn't likely to be the first person Ryan vented about his problems to—that was for another friend, or Keltie.  Brendon wasn't Ryan's closest friend, he thought, and Ryan had every right to keep his personal problems private, not share his thoughts with Brendon.

 

“It's—it's, uh—it's nothing.  Don't worry about it.  Just go do your ballet thing.”

 

“But—”

 

Ryan shook his head.  “Don't worry about it.  I'll be fine.  It's all okay.”  Ryan shot him a smile, and it was mysterious, forced, apparently.

 

“Oh, okay,” Brendon said, and reluctantly made his way over to the barre.

 

He didn't play music as he warmed up, preferring to listen for Ryan's movements, see if he would begin a tap routine of some kind.  He was only met with silence, and the occasional sigh of Ryan's.  It was troubling.  Brendon just wanted to know what was making Ryan act so strangely.

 

Even when Ryan and Keltie fought, Ryan was open to talking about it, and he wasn't closed off at all.  Brendon had never seen him like this before.  Ryan was always talkative enough to keep conversation going.  There were too many possibilities of what had gone wrong for Brendon to take a guess, since he determined that something with Keltie wasn't what was bothering Ryan.

 

Brendon was almost done with his combinations when he heard a dull thud on the stage, and he looked over to see Ryan laying back, arms over his chest.  “I have no motivation today,” Ryan confessed, closing his eyes.

 

“Okay,” Brendon said, after a short hesitation.

 

“We have ballet tonight, and you're already working.  How do you pull it off everyday?”

 

“I don't know . . .” Brendon said.  “I just do it.  It's my job, and I kinda like dance, you know.”

 

That earned a small laugh from Ryan, which Brendon appreciated.  “Don't you have days where you just . . . can't take it?” Ryan asked.

 

“Not yet.  But then again, I'm not  _ nearly  _ as old as you, Ryan,” Brendon teased.

 

“Fuck, I guess not,” Ryan breathed, not laughing at all that time, and Brendon recoiled a bit, regretting his choice of words.  “Or you're just not in love,” he mumbled, as an afterthought.

 

Brendon froze in place, glancing over at Ryan.  He supposed he wasn't in love, that Ryan was right—after all, he didn't know Ryan that well.  Yet.  He gulped, thinking that maybe, it was only a matter of time before he'd fallen that hard.  He internally groaned.  This was bad, this was awful, and he couldn't do anything to stop it, especially as he found himself walking towards Ryan, meeting his hazel eyes.  The look seemed to electrify his heart to a quicker beat.

 

Wordlessly, Brendon sat on the edge of the stage next to Ryan, and lied down beside him.  “Does it really suck that bad?” Brendon asked.  “To be in love?  Is it really so bad that you can't even dance anymore?”

 

“Yes,” Ryan whispered, “it does.  But I probably shouldn't let it stop me from doing my job, so.”  He quickly moved away from Brendon, once more, and stood to take away the ballet barre on stage.

 

They got through one full dance of their routine, but Ryan seemed distracted, his movements fumbling numerous times.  When Brendon reached for his hands, his grip was quite tight, more than usual.  Maybe it was Brendon's imagination, but his fingers seemed to be shaking, as well.

 

“That was complete shit on my part, I'm sorry,” Ryan said, as the music faded out.  His eyes lingered on Brendon's, and Brendon inhaled sharply.

 

“It's okay.  You're just having an off-day, yeah?”

 

Ryan gulped and closed his eyes.  “Keltie left me,” he blurted out, eyes remaining shut.

 

Brendon's stomach flipped, and he bit his lip to hold back a smile.  No, no, this was bad, he wasn't supposed to be happy, he had to be sorry for Ryan.  “Oh, fuck,” Brendon said.

 

Ryan looked up at him with glistening eyes, his eyebrows furrowed.  He was obviously holding back tears, and Brendon felt his palms begin to sweat, with nerves of his own.  How he was supposed to handle this situation—

 

“Ryan, Ryan, hey.  It'll—” Brendon swallowed—“it'll be okay.  Let's take a break, or something, um.”  Ryan buried his face in his hands, sniffling, and Brendon cringed at his own awkwardness.  He didn't want Ryan to be sad, heartbroken, even if it were for his own gain.

 

“Do you—do you wanna go out somewhere?” Brendon stuttered.

 

They both winced at themselves.  “I don't really feel like being here,” Ryan choked out.

 

Brendon nodded.  “Okay, yeah, we can do lunch, you can talk if you want to.  Okay?”

 

“Yeah, okay.”  When Ryan thought Brendon had turned away, he wiped at his eyes.  Brendon caught it, and his worry increased.

 

This was his chance.  If he could make Ryan feel better, then maybe Ryan would see how much Brendon cared about him, and how Brendon could be better than Keltie.  He wouldn't do this to Ryan.  Ryan wouldn't ever be this sad if he was dating Brendon.

 

Silently, Ryan followed Brendon to his car.  Brendon knew Ryan had to be lost in thought, completely, over Keltie.  That was a lot to take in, even for Brendon.  It seemed so sudden, that Keltie would leave him.

 

It wasn't until they were pulling out of the theater’s parking lot that Brendon asked, “Where do you want to go?”  Brendon didn't really know his way around the city of Tacoma, since he spent most of his time in Seattle, and he didn't know where they could get lunch.

 

“I don't really care.  Whatever you want,” Ryan said, quietly.

 

Brendon gulped.  “Do you know of anywhere in Tacoma, like, at all, where we can get food?  Because I don't really know where I'm going.”

 

Ryan shook his head.  “Just drive.  We’ll probably see something.”

 

Hesitantly, Brendon did as Ryan said, following the flow of traffic.  They ended up at some diner, close to the waterfront.  Unsure of how Ryan was feeling, Brendon did all the talking to get them seated, and Ryan simply followed him.

 

They sat across from each other, and Brendon tried to think about something other than how he practically asked Ryan on a date.  It wasn't a date, though, clearly; it was only a lunch with his co-worker, who he happened to have feelings for.  He didn't have any idea how he managed to ask Ryan out with him, but it was too late to ponder any of it.

 

“I'm sorry I've dragged you into this,” Ryan said, frowning across the table.

 

“It's fine, you really haven't,” Brendon said.  

 

“Thanks for doing this,” Ryan said, and scratched at the back of his neck.

 

“Yeah, of course.  Are you doing okay?”

 

“I'm alright, I guess.”

 

“I'm really sorry this happened, Ryan.”

 

“Me too,” Ryan sighed.

 

“Why—why did she do it?  Can I ask that?  I mean, you don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to, I just . . .” Brendon knew he was rambling, and Ryan was shaking his head.

 

“There were several reasons,” Ryan said, but didn't elaborate.

 

“Oh.”

 

“She doesn't know how much I love her.”

 

“I don't think it would change her mind,” Brendon said, slowly.  He wasn't great at comforting people, it wasn't something he did regularly, or something ever really did.  At the same time, he didn't exactly know how to cope with breakups, either.

 

He only had one serious relationship, his whole life.  In high school, he dated a girl, named Audrey.  Their breakup was something Brendon didn't think about anymore, but he remembered his heartbreak.  That had only lasted a month at the most, before he felt dumb for lingering on it at all.  He didn't know what made him snap out of it, so he couldn't offer any advice to Ryan on how to feel better.

 

That made him feel somewhat bad, but he mainly wanted to hear more from Ryan about how he felt, and ultimately, about what lead to the breakup.

 

“Nothing I said would change her mind,” Ryan agreed, as pitifully as he sounded.

 

Brendon let the silence drag out for a few moments before saying, “I think she made a mistake.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I think she made a mistake in leaving you.”

 

“I thought we were perfect for each other,” Ryan whispered.

 

Brendon couldn't bring himself to side with Ryan on that, so he didn't say anything.

 

“I know we had problems sometimes, but I thought we could make it work, I really did,” Ryan said.

 

“She could've made it work with you, but she didn't want that,” Brendon said, trying not to be too harsh sounding.

 

“Should I be mad at her?  Because I'm not even that mad at her, I just wish she stayed with me,” Ryan said.

 

“Well, I'm mad at her,” Brendon chuckled, “for making you so sad.”

 

Ryan stared at his hands, splayed out on the wooden table in front of him.  “You're a good friend, Brendon Urie.  You take my shit all the time, even when my girlfriend won't.”  Ryan huffed out a bitter laugh, lifting his head to gaze at the ceiling instead, but Brendon knew it was to keep the tears from dripping out of his eyes.

  
Brendon would do anything to stop him from crying, and felt the urge to take his hand, or grab his face and just kiss him, simply tell him how he deserved to be cherished and treated well and be loved and how Brendon could do all of that for him.  Brendon might as well be falling apart, too, for Ryan didn't see Brendon to be nearly as lovable as his new ex-girlfriend, Keltie.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Couples are never supposed to lace finger in ballet, as it tends to make the next steps more complicated than necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really long chapter, so I hope it makes up for the long lack of updates!

There wasn't necessarily a different dynamic in Ryan and Brendon's relationship since the Keltie ordeal happened, but Ryan himself seemed to be effected.  He still taught his classes with the same enthusiasm and kindness, but Brendon would catch little things he did that were definitely forced, completely unlike himself.  At rehearsals, it was much more apparent, since he and Brendon were alone.  Ryan was quiet and withdrawn, voice taking a timid edge.  His suggestions for choreography were unsure, and casual conversation with Brendon seemed difficult for him.

 

Brendon wished he could do more to comfort Ryan, but it was hard for him, too.  It was hard for him to say anything to soothe him that wasn't admitting his feelings for him.  He couldn't just tell Ryan that Keltie was weird for breaking up with him, because who wouldn't want to date Ryan?  That seemed absurd to Brendon.

 

Their choreography together was perfected, rehearsed over and over again to the point of boredom.  No matter how many times it happened, though, Brendon could not get used to the feelings of holding Ryan's hand, or being so physically close to him.  It wasn't like Brendon had never done partner work, either, in dance.  After so many ballet productions, he’d partnered with numerous different girls, but it had never felt nearly as intimate as it did with Ryan.

 

He supposed he never really knew the girls he danced with, outside of where their center of balance was on the block of their pointe shoes.  Ballerinas were the same, mostly, with their prominent ribcages and narrow waistlines, delicate arms and powerful legs.  It was a whole new feeling to be working with a male tap dancer, and having to rely on Ryan as much as Ryan had to rely on him.

 

Brendon liked the feeling more than he wanted to admit, but there was no way he could deny it with himself that he enjoyed seeing Ryan everyday.  He just didn't enjoy seeing Ryan so clearly upset.

 

Apparently, Brendon wasn't the only one who noticed something was off with Ryan, as Pete asked about him in Brendon's private lesson.  Brendon was about to leave the studio to go home for the night, before Pete asked him, “Hey, B, how's Ryan doing?”

 

Brendon frowned, not wanting to give too much away about Ryan's love life without him knowing.  “He's doing alright, why do you ask?”

 

“I just haven't heard from him in awhile, and he usually shoots me a few texts every now and then.  You see him everyday, so I just figured you'd know.”

 

“Yeah, uh, he’s—he’s hanging in there.”

 

“Okay, Brendon, tell him I wish him the best.”

 

“I will,” Brendon agreed, though he found it strange.  Ryan worked at Pete’s studio; they saw each other in at least passing almost every day.  Pete could just talk to Ryan himself, but Brendon couldn't think of an explanation.  Pete had also been acting oddly lately, yet Brendon didn't mention that to him.

 

Rehearsal was dead silent for the first thirty minutes the next day, which Brendon was begrudgingly getting used to.  Ryan was lost in thought all the damn time, curiously watching Brendon—staring at him—while he warmed up, making Brendon feel sorry for Ryan and semi-self conscious.  Before Brendon was even done with his barre work, he said to Ryan, quite loudly, “You know, Pete was asking about you last night.”

 

“Asking about me?” Ryan replied, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Yeah, he just wanted to know if you're okay.”

 

“Oh,” was all Ryan said.

 

“He said you haven't talked to him in awhile.”

 

Ryan shrugged.  “He hasn't reached out.”

 

Biting his lip, Brendon said, “He also said he wishes you his best.”

 

Ryan scoffed, rolling his eyes.  “It's not like he's at his best right now.”

 

Brendon didn't know what to say, remaining completely oblivious to Pete’s situation and only wanting to change the topic off of Ryan.  He stayed silent, wishing Ryan would say something else to relieve the awkward tension.

 

Ryan picked at the tattered orange laces of his tap shoes, glancing at Brendon every few minutes.  “Well?” Brendon finally asked.  “Are you?”

 

“Am I what?” Ryan questioned.

 

“Are you . . . okay?”

 

“I guess,” Ryan said, with a shrug.

 

Brendon was disgusted with himself for wishing the breakup had brought them closer, that it would make Ryan fall for Brendon, somehow.  It seemed that the exact opposite was happening—Ryan cared about Keltie more, now that she was gone.  Brendon wanted to be there to support Ryan, as just a friend and nothing more.  Just a friend.

 

Later that night, between the tap class Ryan taught and Brendon's private work with Pete, Ryan and Pete bumped into each other by the studio door.  Brendon just so happened to be heading that way as well, and was pleasantly surprised when Ryan smiled at the sight of him.  He smiled back, looking to Pete after Ryan.

 

Pete didn't smile back, obviously too involved in a serious conversation with Ryan.  “I'm really sorry about Keltie, that's really awful,” Pete whispered.

 

“I'm really trying to get over it,” Ryan said, repeatedly shooting looks to Brendon.  Reluctantly, Brendon moved close to Ryan, putting himself in the conversation.  He hoped that was what Ryan was signaling for him to do.

 

“Have you talked to her since then?  Have you talked to anyone?” Pete asked.

 

“No . . . No, Brendon's really been the only person I've talked to, since then, actually,” Ryan said, brushing shoulders with him.

 

Brendon internally high-fived himself, at that comment.

 

“That's good, that's good,” Pete said.  “You should do something fun, though, Ryan.  It's like, a ritual, after a breakup.”

 

“Like what?” Ryan said.

 

Pete grinned.  “You should go out with me tonight,” he said.

 

Brendon's jaw clenched involuntarily, and Ryan shifted uncomfortably beside him.  “Um.  Pete, you're my boss, I don't know—”

 

“Oh, come on, we’ll just party a little bit, it'll be fun!” Pete said.

 

Brendon was about to sulk away from the two of them when Ryan blurted out, “Brendon, will you come with us?”

 

“Yeah, of course,” Brendon automatically said.  Just because Ryan was asking him.

 

Brendon didn't party.  In high school, he hadn't been one to sneak out at night, cherishing the small amount of sleep he got, due to being at dance practice so much of the time.  Audrey had once shared one of her cigarettes with Brendon, and that was the most rebellious kind of thing he had ever done.  He’d even hated the cigarette, coughing, and being terrified of the one drag ruining his body.  He wanted his body to be pure, for ballet.

 

However, the thought of going out with Ryan, being with him outside of dance, excited him.  And Ryan wanted him there.  That made him happy.

 

“So, can we cancel ballet for the night, Brendon?” Pete asked.

 

“Yeah, sure,” Brendon said.

 

“Awesome, alright, let me grab my keys—we’re going to a bar.  No, you know what, we’re going to a club.  We need to have a really good time,” Pete rambled, but sounded firm in his plans.

 

Brendon laughed, “Okay.”

 

Ryan and Brendon followed Pete up to his office, for him to get all his things together and lock up the studio.  It was routine to him, and everyone was silent for the few moments that it took.

 

Standing by Pete’s car in the parking lot, neither Ryan nor Brendon reached for the front passenger seat, both headed to the back with the intention of giving the front to the other.  They both climbed in the back, not saying a word about it.  Brendon caught Ryan's eyes, and smiled, friendly.  He could have sworn his heart rate doubled when Ryan smiled back at him.

 

Pete was the type to play loud music whenever he drove, no matter what.  It didn't matter that he had other people with him—he kept the windows down and some rock music blaring, singing along every now and then at an especially intense part.

 

Amusedly, Ryan and Brendon exchanged looks at the spectacle before them, Ryan quirking an eyebrow, Brendon biting his lip to hold back laughter.

 

Ryan leaned in a bit.  “You wanna know something sad?” He whispered.

 

Brendon blinked.  “What?”

 

“I've never been to a nightclub.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I'm twenty three and I've never been to a nightclub.  That's weird, right?” Ryan asked.

 

“Well, I haven't either, so,” Brendon said.

 

“Oh, okay,” Ryan replied, settling back into his seat.  “Good.  It won't be weird.”

 

Brendon grinned.

 

Pete took them to a place on the outskirts of the city, a black box of a building.  The gravel parking lot was full, but Pete scored a spot close to the door.  Before walking in, Pete turned around to face Ryan and Brendon, who were following him.  “Oh, Ryan, if you happen to take someone home tonight . . .” Pete said, and fished through his pockets for something.  “Here are my keys.  You can take my car.  B and I can take a cab.”

 

Pete winked at Ryan, who reluctantly took the keys.  Brendon looked to the ground.  The idea of Ryan taking someone home, sleeping with some unidentified stranger . . . It bothered Brendon, but he didn't say anything.  He, unfortunately, had no right to.  This also gave him an unjustified anger with Pete for even suggesting such a thing, and he felt his mood start to plummet.

 

Ryan gently elbowed him in the side, and Brendon realized they were moving.  “You coming?” Ryan asked.

 

“Yeah . . .” Brendon said, breaking eye contact.

 

“Hey, I'm not gonna ditch you.”

 

Brendon looked up at him.  “What—no, it's fine—”

 

They walked into the building, temporarily pausing their conversation to adjust to the loud music and concentrate on following Pete.  The crowd of people on the dance floor was thick and packed tightly.  Pete led them straight to the bar, where the three of them sat down.

 

Pete was talking to the bartender, ordering himself a drink already.  “I'm definitely not going home with someone tonight,” Ryan continued.

 

“Oh, well—”

 

“So don't worry about it.  This is, like, kinda terrifying,” Ryan said, eyeing the dance floor and the various people at the bar.  “I wouldn't want to be here alone.”

 

“Well, thanks,” Brendon said.

 

“Yeah, no problem.”

 

Brendon looked down the bar at everyone drinking and said, “You wanna know something sad about me?”

 

“What?” Ryan asked.

 

“I'm twenty two and I've never even  _ drank _ .”

 

Pete snapped his head around to look at him, snickered, and said, “Of course you haven't,” then pointedly added, “Ballerina-Boy.”

 

“I’ve never drank, either, so,” Ryan said.

 

Pete's jaw dropped, and Ryan looked at Brendon once more.  Ryan smirked a little bit, and mouthed, “Ballerina-Boy,” in Brendon's direction.

 

Brendon rolled his eyes, but smiled to himself.

 

A few moments later, Pete passed them two bright pink-colored drinks, in glasses slightly larger than shot glasses.  “Oh, here, Pete, let me pay for that,” Ryan said, courteously, although he hadn't even asked for it.  He pulled his wallet out, and Brendon did the same.

 

“No, no, it's on me.  I know how much you two make, remember?”

 

“Yeah, so you know it's enough we can pay for our own drinks,” Brendon said.

 

“Brendon, that's just because you get paid more than Ryan.  Just take the free tequila.”

 

Ryan's jaw dropped a bit, seeming offended, and Pete chuckled.  Brendon shifted uncomfortably, not knowing what to do with that information.  He simply hoped Ryan wouldn't be bitter with him now over that.

 

“I'm joking, Ryan.  All my teachers have the same salary.  I've got the drinks, though.”

 

There was a tense silence after that in which Pete was distracted with something else.  Eventually, Brendon curled his fingers around his drink and looked at Ryan.

 

“Do it,” Ryan said, “just knock it back.”

 

Brendon tentatively raised the glass to his lips and took a swig.  He grimaced and swallowed, feeling a burn down his throat with a sweet aftertaste.  “ _ Shit _ , that is strong,” Brendon said.

 

“I don't think I want any, then,” Ryan said.

 

“I don't blame you.”

 

Pete stole Ryan's drink at some point, knocked it down, and stood from his place at the bar.  “We should go dance,” he half-shouted over the music.

 

“We’ve been dancing all day,” Ryan said.

 

Pete rolled his eyes.  “But this is different!”

 

Ryan turned his head to look at Brendon, who shrugged.

 

“Come on,” Pete urged, and for the sake of not being embarrassed, Brendon stood up.  Ryan followed.

 

They ended up in the middle of the crowd, with Pete nowhere in sight, the lights flashing from dim, to blindingly bright, to completely dark.  Brendon's eyes stayed trained on Ryan, and that was what mattered most.

 

Brendon stood still for a moment to take in his surroundings.  The ocean of people seemed to be languidly moving, arms loosely in the air, hair moving and rustling.  It all seemed grimy, and what was most noticeable was all the people making out and grinding on each other to the music.

 

Brendon thought it was horribly indecent, this kind of thing wasn't supposed to happen around other people, wasn't supposed to happen in public.  But his eyes landed on a guy and a girl dancing, him slowly moving his hips against her ass, sucking on her neck, and after feeling disgusted, he imagined what it would be like to move like that with Ryan.  He couldn't fully wrap his mind around how much he would enjoy it if he was in that girl’s place, and Ryan was the one grinding on him.

 

He blinked out of his fantasy to meet Ryan's actual eyes, which were wide and darting.  “Well,” Brendon chuckled, “this is uncomfortable.”

 

“This definitely isn't helping me get over my breakup,” Ryan said, bitterly.

 

Brendon frowned.  “I'm sorry.”

 

“Don't be.  You've been the biggest help,” Ryan said.

 

Brendon stored those words away in his memories to think about when he was sad.

 

A girl ran into Ryan, hitting him hard enough that it caused him to trip.  Brendon steadied him with a hand on his back, but it didn't even feel weird.  It was the automatic trust and reflex that came with being dance partners.  “Sorry!” She said.

 

“It's okay,” Ryan replied.

 

She squinted at him.  “Are you wearing eyeliner?” She asked.

 

“Uh, yeah,” Ryan said.

 

“I love it when boys wear eyeliner,” she flirted.

 

“That's nice,” Ryan said.  With that cool tone of voice, she was dismissed.  Brendon was relieved.  He didn't like seeing anyone else flirt with Ryan.  It was like it would narrow his odds of getting together with Ryan even further.

 

“Why’d you reject her?” Brendon asked.

 

“I already told you, I'm not gonna ditch you.  That would be rude.”

 

“Did you think she was pretty?”

 

“I—I guess?” Ryan said.

 

“Then you could've flirted back—”

 

“I don't want to sleep with anyone right now,” Ryan said.

 

“Oh.”

 

Brendon didn't know why he was questioning Ryan.  He supposed he wanted to see if a stranger was better than him, would be a better fit for Ryan.  That made him irritated—he wanted to be the one Ryan had eyes for, and nobody else.  He wished he had that kind of security, but he truly wasn't anywhere close.

 

At that very moment, Ryan took out his vibrating phone, and his eyebrows shot up upon looking at the screen.  His knuckles went white around the phone, and he said, “Keltie’s calling me.”

 

“Don't answer it,” Brendon automatically said.  Fuck, why did he have to have so much competition?  Keltie seemed to have Ryan wrapped around her finger, and Brendon was just kind of . . . there.  A mere presence in Ryan's life and nothing more.

 

“But, why not?  We haven't talked in so long, and I miss her—”

 

“You don't need her,” Brendon said, forcing a smile on his face.

 

“What do you mean? I loved her.”

 

Brendon took a deep breath, looking at Ryan's concerned face, his furrowed eyebrows and saddened eyes, in the mix of booming club music, people dancing and spilling their drinks on themselves.  “You used to love her.  You can't love her anymore,” Brendon said, feeling bold.

 

Ryan slowly made eye contact with Brendon, and Brendon's stomach dropped with fear.  Wrong advice? Ryan could hate him, could run away right now, did Brendon fuck up?  He didn't have a right to tell Ryan what to do.

 

“You know, you're not wrong,” Ryan said, and Brendon nodded with relief.  “I should probably at least try to get over her.”  He slipped his phone in his back pocket.

 

“You okay?” Brendon asked.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryan assured, letting out a deep breath.

 

Brendon was concerned about Ryan, still, not wanting him to spend the night sad and feeling regret over Keltie.  Ryan was supposed to stop thinking about her, for tonight specifically.  Brendon wanted that for him, wanted him to have a good time, for at least a temporary distraction.

 

That didn't stop Brendon from thinking about her, though.  Brendon stood no chance at getting Ryan if she was still trying to make herself present in his life.  He’d never get over her like that, never see anyone past her.  She had so much more of an advantage than Brendon, and, shit, what if she was totally better than Brendon, all around?  Ryan probably had a lot more fun with her, she was probably more attractive to Ryan than Brendon was; they had more history than Brendon did with Ryan, by a long shot.

 

He attempted, with his best spirits, to brush off any negative thoughts and enjoy this time with Ryan.  It wasn't a common occurrence for them to see each other outside of the dance studio, and Brendon wanted to make the most of it.

 

“Hey, Brendon,” Ryan said, and he instantly had Brendon's attention.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Ryan wasn't fidgeting at all, standing still and somehow avoiding getting elbowed in the face.  “Is this weird?” Ryan asked.

 

Brendon's lips parted slightly, about to reply but not knowing how to answer, not knowing what Ryan was referring to.  He looked around, at the somewhat dirty scene of the dance floor and the flashing lights, and thought, yeah, this was weird for him.  But he truly didn't mind, not with Ryan there.  It didn't feel too awful.  Yet Ryan's question was too vague, Brendon couldn't decipher what he meant.

 

“Is what weird?” He replied, and his voice sounded breathy to his own ears.

 

“Like—” Ryan licked his lips—“that I asked you to come with me tonight.  Was that bad?  If this isn't your thing, I get it, I can drive you home if you want—”

 

Brendon chuckled.  “No, it's okay.  I think we’re equally as uncomfortable.”

 

“This was just really not professional of me, and—”

 

“Hey, don't worry about it.  We’re friends, right?” Brendon said.

 

“Yeah, of course.”

 

“Then this is no big deal.”

 

Ryan nodded.  “Thanks.”

 

“Pete left us,” Brendon noted.

 

“He did.”

 

“He's so fucking weird sometimes.”

 

Ryan laughed.  “He can be a mysterious one.  I don't know why he thought I would enjoy this.  I can maybe see a partier in you, but I'm . . . definitely not that person.”

 

“I'm not really this type of person either,” Brendon smirked, gesturing to the scene around them.

 

“Mm, I think I'm a lot more boring than you are,” Ryan said.

 

“I don't know about that.”

 

“You're all interesting and passionate and good at your job, and you're really nice and actually horrible at being a dick, even when you try,” Ryan said.

 

Brendon gulped, the compliments meaning more to him than Ryan could know.  He bashfully looked away, then said, “Well, I actually don't have a life outside of dance, like, this is so out of my element, you don't even know.”

 

Ryan seemed sympathetic, shrugging.  “We don't have to stick around, really.  Pete already ditched us.”

 

“We don't have cars,” Brendon pointed out.

 

Impishly, Ryan pulled Pete’s keys out of his back pocket, dangling them by one long finger.  “We can come get him in a couple hours,” Ryan suggested.

 

“Okay,” Brendon nodded, “where are we going?”

 

“We’ll figure it out,” Ryan said.

 

As they maneuvered their way through the people, Ryan placed a hand between Brendon's shoulder blades, so they didn't get separated, surely.  Brendon felt shocks up his spine at the touch, and tried not to shudder too noticeably.

 

Ryan drove Pete’s car, and Brendon stared at his fingers on the wheel while he wasn't paying attention to him.  Ryan seemed so perfect—his profile, his lips, his hands . . .

 

“So, you said you don't have a life outside of ballet,” Ryan finally said.

 

“Yeah, no, I really don't,” Brendon said, tearing his eyes away from Ryan's body.

 

He was embarrassed with the answer, and the truthfulness behind it; he expected Ryan to reply with something that would make it even worse, some tease.  “It's no wonder you're so good at it, then,” Ryan said, instead, pleasantly surprising Brendon.

 

“I'm okay,” Brendon said.

 

“No, you're really fucking good,” Ryan said, adamant.

 

“Thanks?”

 

“You're welcome.”

 

Brendon looked out the window, hiding his wide smile from Ryan.  “Twenty four hour diner,” he observed, “wanna stop in?”

 

“Sure,” Ryan said, and quickly turned to park.  “If I focused more on dance, maybe I'd be as good of a dancer as you.”

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Brendon laughed.  “You're joking, right?”

 

“No, actually, I'm serious,” Ryan answered, leading them into the diner.  Some of the fluorescent lights were flickering, buzzing, and the place smelled of grease and butter.  The grout of the tile floors was kind of gross, but it was nothing compared to the nightclub they had just left.  “If I spent a little more time at the studio, maybe I could be way better at dance, like you do,” Ryan said.

 

Brendon was about to respond when a waitress came to take them to a booth, allowing them to look around the deserted place.  They were the only customers in there, which Brendon found relieving.  The seats of the booths were obviously old but cushioned, striped red and blue, with some stuffing coming out of a seam near the edge.  Ryan took the more torn-up side of the table first, leaving the nicer side for Brendon to sit.

 

“You're already, like, the best tap dancer in the studio, for sure,” Brendon said, once they were seated.

 

“I guess,” Ryan shrugged.

 

“And you spend almost as much time there as I do.  I can't imagine you having a life outside of dance anymore than me,” Brendon said.

 

“I don't know, I mean, don't you have hobbies?  Or is it all really just ballet?”

 

“It's really just ballet.”

 

“Oh,” Ryan frowned.

 

Brendon leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table.  “This means you have ‘hobbies,’ or whatever.  What does that mean for you?”

 

“I—I play guitar, and piano.  Sometimes I write music,” Ryan said.

 

“Damn.  I used to play piano,” Brendon recollected.

 

“Why'd you stop?” Ryan inquired.

 

“I never bought one when I got my own place,” Brendon said.

 

“I have a baby grand,” Ryan commented, casually, and Brendon gasped slightly.

 

“That's a dream.”

 

“Keltie hated it.  She said it always sounded too sad.”

 

Brendon felt angry again at Keltie’s name, especially so with her saying that to Ryan.  “You definitely weren't right for each other, then,” Brendon said.  “She just doesn't understand the art.”

 

“No, she didn't,” Ryan drawled, and Brendon hurriedly wanted to take the topic off of Ryan's ex girlfriend.

 

“When did you learn how to play guitar and piano?” Brendon asked.

 

“When I was a kid, before I started tap, I learned the basics, taught myself the rest, which isn't much that I know.”

 

Brendon didn't really remember a time when he wasn't taking ballet, signed up at age three with his older sister, who was five.  His sister quit a few years later, but Brendon just loved something about it, far more than his sister did.  He moved up levels quickly, and soon to a more prestigious academy, having natural talent, he was told.  Somewhere in his childhood, his mother taught him piano and had him practice on his nights off from dance, and, well, he somehow caught onto that really fast, too.

 

He told Ryan this, and Ryan seemed impressed.  “I didn't start dance until I was thirteen,” Ryan said.  “And I made a lot of friends, and kinda focused on that too much to realize I was actually pretty good at tap, then I ended up getting this scholarship to another academy from a competition, and that academy sent me to Pete when I was eighteen.  I never thought I'd be teaching, but . . .”

 

“Neither did I,” Brendon said.

 

“I never thought I'd be teaching a  _ ballerina  _ how to tap,” Ryan teased.

 

“I'm sure you enjoy it, though,” Brendon retorted, playful.

 

Ryan shrugged.  “Actually . . . it's pretty nice.  You're not so uptight.  Until you start teaching.”

 

“You just think I'm an uptight teacher because you're lax,” Brendon said.

 

“Maybe, or ballet is just terrifying.”

 

“I'm not the scariest teacher out there.”

 

Ryan laughed at that.  Brendon was nearly smug at being the cause.

 

“You've never really intimidated me,” Ryan claimed.

 

“Good,” Brendon said.

 

“It's, like, you're understanding.  And I feel like I understand you.  We're both professional dancers, so you're more supportive than anything.”

 

“Of course.  Dance is what we both want to do, and you could've quit ballet by now, but you didn't, so I respect you for that.”

 

“It's tempting, but . . . you keep drawing me back.”

 

“Oh, really?” Brendon asked, biting his lip.

 

“Yeah.  It's nice to have someone who wants me to get better.”  Ryan blinked a few times, before continuing, “Keltie never wanted that for me.”

 

Brendon frowned at the mere mention of her, once more.  “She didn't deserve you,” Brendon said.

 

“No, I didn't deserve her.”

 

“You treated her well.  This was her mistake,” Brendon reiterated, as he had done several times since Ryan and Keltie had split.

 

Ryan stared at the greasy table between them, face blank but somehow giving off the feeling of frustration.  “It just doesn't feel right.”

 

Brendon couldn't help but hate that Ryan missed her so much.  “It wasn't right for you to be together, either,” Brendon said.

 

“I know, damn it.  I know.”  He gazed out the window, down at the ground, over Brendon's shoulder—anywhere but Brendon's eyes.  “I don't even blame her for leaving me.  I've never been mad at her for doing it.”

 

“That's just because you're a sweet person, Ryan—”

 

“She had good reason, is what I'm saying,” Ryan interjected.

 

Brendon raised an eyebrow inquisitively.  She had good reason?  Ryan never specified what happened between them before to cause Keltie to leave, and Brendon was okay with it, but now he wanted to know.

 

“I don't know how she could possibly leave you,” Brendon admitted, and was immediately thankful Ryan wasn't paying much attention to his choice of words.

 

“Brendon, you know she wasn't ever the most supportive when it came to my career, but I never really knew why.  She was always . . . insecure, I guess, but I thought it was something normal and not really a big deal because I would  _ never cheat on her _ .  I mean, I was in love with her, I would've spent the rest of my life with her, I wouldn't have been so stupid as to go do that.  I didn't really understand her actual feelings until she left me, though.”

 

“What happened?” Brendon asked, voice soft.

 

“She thought I was gay.  She thought that eventually, I would leave her for another man, and, so, she—she left.  And at first I really thought that was a completely irrational reason, because—because I—”

 

“You loved her,” Brendon finished.  It was his turn to avoid eye contact.

 

“I did, I loved her, but now.  Now I'm thinking, what if she was right?  That's not a bad reason to leave someone, if she thought I wasn't even attracted to her, but what if?  What if I am gay?  What if she was right; she might be.  Maybe—maybe I am more attracted to boys than I thought, and then she's right—”

 

After listening intently to Ryan's ramblings for so long, Brendon rested his cheek in his palm and laughed.  It was a serious moment for Ryan, this confession, but Brendon couldn't have been more amused.  There were tears in his eyes as he laughed from his chest forward.  “What if—what if you're gay?  That would be a tragedy, I don't know if I could ever speak to you again,” Brendon said, sarcastic.

 

Ryan stared at him.  “So, you're saying it's not a bad thing if I dated a woman for a year and I've actually been gay all along?” Ryan asked, but he sounded bitter.

 

Brendon, suddenly, had a hell of a lot to say.  “Ryan, you loved her, didn't you?  You were committed to her?”

 

“Well, yeah, but—”

 

“Then there's nothing wrong with generally being attracted to men!” Brendon exclaimed.  A waitress looked over at them.  Ryan's cheeks went pink.  “I'm surprised you're just now figuring this out about yourself,” Brendon said, quieter.

 

“Yeah, me too,” Ryan huffed.

 

“I know it's weird if you thought you were completely straight this whole time.  My girlfriend left me for almost the same reason in high school,” Brendon said.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah.  Audrey, first of all, wasn't keen on me taking ballet and partnering with other girls everyday.  And then, later into it, she wasn't keen on other boys at the studio asking me out,” Brendon deadpanned.

 

“Oh,” Ryan replied, “did you say yes to any of them?”

 

“Almost, after she broke up with me.  But I was too sad over her, and pretty confused for a while—if I was gay, if I was straight.”

 

“Did you ever figure it out?” Ryan questioned.

 

Brendon shrugged.  “I like to think I'm somewhere in between.  More on the gay side, these days . . .” Brendon chuckled.

 

Ryan laughed with him, and it released the tension Brendon hadn't realized was there.  “I wouldn't have known,” Ryan said.

 

Brendon blinked slowly.  “Are you serious?  Look at me.  I'm a male ballet dancer.  How many straight guys have you met in professional dance?  I'm not saying they don't exist, but they're few and far between.  I'm definitely not one of them.”

 

“That makes sense.  Thank you for talking about this.  I wouldn't have opened up about it to anyone else.”

 

“Of course.  I don't really talk about it, either, so this is nice.  And, Ryan, don't get yourself overwhelmed by all this.  It's not really a big deal, because honestly, who the fuck cares if you're gay?  None of us at the studio are gonna like you any less.”

 

Ryan nodded.  “You're right.  Pete's been with Mikey forever . . .”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Speaking of Pete, we should probably go get him,” Ryan said.

 

“Is it really that late?  Oh, yeah, fuck,” Brendon said.  It was nearing two in the morning.  Neither of them had ordered any food, so they simply got up and walked out.

 

It was the end of the conversation about their sexualities, but Brendon considered all of it another major victory on his end.

 

The nightclub was as crowded and wild as it had been when they left, but this time, neither were shocked by it in the slightest.  Ryan placed a hand on Brendon's back, and Brendon grinned.  The music wasn't so bad, after all, and the dirty dancing on the floor didn't seem so disgusting.  Feeling carefree, Brendon would love to turn around and grind on Ryan for the remainder of the night—see if it lead them anywhere else—but he was luckily not that impulsive.

He fantasized a little bit more about Ryan, until he heard his name being called from a voice that wasn't as smooth and airy as Ryan's—it was none other than Pete.

 

Pete was totally smashed.

 

His arms were warm around Brendon's neck and he clung to him, not supporting any of his own weight.  “B, where have you been?” Pete slurred.  “I wanted you to come, and dance, I've been with strangers all night.”  Suddenly his hips were pressed flush with Brendon's, and Brendon took a few steps back, at the same time Ryan pulled him away.

 

“We’re leaving, now,” Ryan said, taking a tone of hostility, which startled Brendon.

 

“Oooh, Ryan, are you jealous?” Pete teased—Brendon's blood froze in his veins—“Do  _ you  _ want to come dance with me?”

 

“No, Pete, let’s go,” Ryan said.

 

Both Ryan and Brendon supported Pete out the door, into the cold air.  Pete tucked his head in Brendon's neck, and Ryan looked away.  They placed Pete in the backseat of his car, Ryan driving and Brendon taking the passenger seat.

 

Pete was passed out before they were even out of the parking lot.

 

“I haven't been to Pete’s house in awhile, sorry if I get lost,” Ryan said.

 

“It's okay.  I've got nowhere to be,” Brendon said.  He was willing to drag out his time with Ryan, dreading their departure.  Ryan's presence made him way too happy; he wanted it all the time.

 

Ryan didn't get lost, somewhat to Brendon's dismay.  They arrived at Pete’s house all too quickly, where Brendon helped Ryan get Pete out of the car.  Brendon was a bit surprised when Pete simply woke up and tried to walk to the door, but him and Ryan still kept him supported, with his arms over their shoulders.

 

Although Pete was awake, he was too drunk to be very coherent, and Ryan simply rung the doorbell to see if Mikey would open the door for them.  In a matter of seconds, Mikey was in the doorway, looking tired and upset, eyebrows furrowed under the baseball cap on his head.  “Hello,” he said, eyes flicking between Ryan and Brendon for a moment.

 

“We, uh, just wanted to bring Pete home—” Ryan began.

 

“Come in,” Mikey said, a hand fisting the front of Pete's shirt and pulling him in the doorway.

 

“Hi, Mikey, baby,” Pete slurred.

 

“Yeah, nice to fucking see you, too, Pete.  Mind telling me where the fuck you were?” Mikey said.

 

Pete's eyes went wide, and he glanced desperately at Ryan and Brendon for help.  Ryan clenched his jaw, watching, and Brendon kept his mouth shut.

 

“Whatever.  It's useless to fight with you when you're too drunk to remember in the morning,” Mikey said.

 

“Mikey . . .” Pete said, and Mikey shook his head.

 

“Go to bed, Pete,” Mikey said.

 

Pete hung his head, and walked off, out of the doorway.

 

Mikey exhaled heavily, and lead Ryan and Brendon past the doorway, into their living room.  It was a small house, and the living room was full of their things.  The couch was covered with costumes that would be used for Mary Poppins, and there were bookcases on either side of it.  There was no place to sit, aside from at the kitchen table.

 

Brendon had automatically gravitated to stand closer to Ryan, their shoulders brushing, but Ryan didn't move away.  Mikey turned to look at them, and Brendon felt a bit guilty that Mikey hadn't known they were out with Pete.  “I know it doesn't really help, but we were at a club in Seattle,” Brendon said, cringing at the words.  “I guess I just assumed he would've told you.”

 

“Not your fault.  It's just that Pete's a slut when he's drunk, and . . .” Mikey trailed off.  His shoulders hunched, and he looked behind himself in the direction of the master bedroom.  The light was already shut out in there, signaling that Pete was in bed, and Mikey sighed once more.

 

“I'm sorry, Mikey,” Ryan said.

 

Mikey shrugged.  “Just—thanks for getting him back here safe, even though you shouldn't be driving, either.”

 

“It's no big deal.  He's way too drunk for it to be safe, so,” Ryan said.

 

“Lucky you didn't get a DUI.  You really shouldn't drive yourselves home, after being out at a club all night.”

 

“We’re sober,” Brendon said.

 

Mikey seemed skeptical.  “Pete says that until he's shitfaced.  You two are really nice, the thought of you getting hurt because I let you leave, drunk, doesn't sit right with me.”

 

Ryan glanced at Brendon.  “Really, we are sober—”

 

“Even so, you don't have cars, and it's really late.  I'll just feel better if you guys stay here for the night.”

 

“Sweet of you,” Brendon said.  It was the middle of the night, and Brendon didn't want to make Mikey drive them home.  Staying at Pete and Mikey’s didn't seem unreasonable—if there was any room in the home.

 

“Thanks, Mikey,” Ryan said.

 

“Of course.  I'm sure you can see, our couch is bit of a mess right now, but we have a guest bedroom,” Mikey told them, and they followed him down the hallway.  He pushed open a door, flipped on a switch, and revealed a tiny bedroom.  The floors were a light wood, and there was a queen sized bed that nearly touched the walls on both sides.  There was a wooden chair in the corner, and that was all.

 

Brendon felt his stomach drop to his feet.  He was going to have to either sleep on the floor, or sleep beside Ryan.

 

“I hope this is okay, this is pretty much all we have,” Mikey said.

 

“Cozy,” Ryan muttered.

 

“It's great, thank you,” Brendon said.

 

“Sleep well,” Mikey said, and then closed the door behind himself.

 

“I can take a blanket and sleep on the floor,” Brendon immediately blurted out.

 

Even though sleeping in the same bed with Ryan seemed like a dream.

 

“No, no, don't do that.  I don't—I don't mind sharing if you don't,” Ryan replied.

 

“It's fine,” Brendon said.

 

“I think he thinks we’re together,” Ryan said.

 

“Pete would probably say shit like that,” Brendon said.

 

“Yeah, true.”

 

Brendon yawned, tiredness clinging to his eyelids.  Sleeping—sharing a bed with Ryan or not—seemed nice.

 

Ryan began crawling in bed, fully clothed, and Brendon bit back a grin.  Feeling incredibly devious and proud of himself for it, Brendon said, “I'm not going to force you to sleep in jeans.  That's hellish.  I mean, I know I wouldn't do it.  But, then again, I'm not very modest.”

 

“Dance isn't modest at all anymore.  I'm not surprised,” Ryan said.

 

Ryan was slightly more shy than Brendon, but when all was said and done, they both ended up in just their underwear, clothes discarded on the floor.  Brendon didn't know whether to be disappointed or pleased that there wasn't anything sexual about it, but Ryan's body—well, Brendon had an image to think about now.  His skin was all pale, his long legs slim but toned, hip bones jutting out of his skinny frame, flat stomach and chest smooth and lanky—mm, Brendon was enamored.

 

He pushed the thoughts out of his head as they laid together, in the dark.  Ryan rolled over to look at him, and said, “Thank you for coming with me tonight, really.  You didn't have to, but it really means a lot.”

 

“Yeah, any time,” Brendon said.

 

“I definitely didn't think we’d end up here.”

 

“I didn't, either, but, hey, are you a heavy or light sleeper?” Brendon asked.

 

“Pretty heavy.  I could sleep through a lot.  And you?”

 

“I tend to be on the lighter side, I wake up easily,” Brendon said.

 

“I'll try really hard to be quiet in the morning, then, if I wake up first,” Ryan said.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Ryan turned to lay on his back again, face up to the ceiling.  Brendon's hip touched Ryan’s under the covers, nothing too obvious, but Brendon could feel the contact.  Ryan's skin was warm.  He would've been perfectly okay with Ryan deciding to wrap his arms around him before they fell asleep, but he knew it wouldn't happen.

 

“Goodnight, Ballerina-boy,” Ryan whispered.

 

“Goodnight, Ryan,” Brendon said, face all smiles.

  
When Brendon woke up, Ryan wasn't there, but the sheets and blankets were tightly tucked around him, not something he could manage in his sleep—something deliberate.  Brendon felt tingles down his spine, and all he could think about was Ryan, a drowsy grin coming to his face as soon as he opened his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendon needs to be held up sometimes, no matter how strong he may be.

The air at rehearsals grew lighter, in some sense, as a little more time past.  Brendon even felt he could say that Ryan’s spirits were getting better.  His mood and aura didn't seem as dark or closed off, and he even relieved Brendon of being the one to start conversations everyday.  However, the ‘everyday’ routine wouldn't be lasting much longer, as the production of  _ Mary Poppins _ was rapidly approaching.

 

Brendon found himself fixating even more upon Ryan, the longer they knew each other.  The stupid crush on he had on Ryan seemed to be getting worse, and worse, and worse.  Whenever Ryan smiled at him, his chest physically hurt, and he felt rushes of exhilaration at simple eye contact, or small, accidental crushes.  If he felt pathetic before, it was nothing to how he felt now.  Brendon couldn't stop  _ feeling _ things for Ryan, and it was getting quite ridiculous, he thought.

 

He knew better than to get hopeful that Ryan would ever feel the same about him.  He always knew that.  But he couldn't stop thinking, daydreaming, on how Ryan's lips would taste, on how it would feel to fall asleep next to Ryan, on what it would be like to call him his.

 

When the show was three weeks out, their rehearsals all alone in the theater were less and less frequent.  There would be full cast dress rehearsals, and meetings on publicity, and photo shoots for posters, and costuming days, and a general load of rushed stress.

 

Neither Brendon nor Ryan were looking forward to it, but Brendon knew they would get through it.  Everything would come together and would be worth it for the performance, he supposed.

 

Pete called him and Ryan into the Seattle studio at seven in the morning, in order to prepare for the dress rehearsals.  Brendon was to run all the ballet pieces throughout the show, and Ryan was to run all the tap.  Their dance students always needed extra guidance, to get as close to perfection as possible before the show.

 

Brendon was tired as he drove through the mid-January freezing rain to the studio.  It was too early, still dark out.  He stopped for a hot mocha coffee on his way, needing something to keep him going.  He had a long day ahead of him, one that consisted of critiquing and yelling at young ballerinas until he was somewhat satisfied with their work.

 

Or, at least, that's what he had thought.

 

The coffee was far too hot to drink, the entire time he sat in traffic.  This faintly irritated him, but he tried to stay in a positive mood.  He'd be seeing Ryan in a few minutes, he tried to console himself.

 

There was only one other car in the parking lot, this early in the morning, when Brendon got there, and it clearly belonged to Pete.  Carrying his dance bag and his coffee, Brendon got out of his car to walk into the familiar dance studio, where he would be staying for a longer day than usual.  With a yawn, he shut the car door behind him.

 

It was so cold outside, Brendon immediately broke out in goosebumps.  His short sleeved shirt and leggings were doing nothing to keep him warm, and it wasn't long before he was shivering.  He cursed himself for not bringing a jacket, but he had been far too tired to remember before leaving his apartment.  The only warmth he was getting was from the coffee in his hand.

 

With the rain coming down fairly heavily, Brendon was rushing to get inside.  He did his best to avoid puddles in the pavement, and he was right in front of the front door when he felt the ground beneath him stop having traction.

 

It was far too late for Brendon to do anything about it, but his ankle twisted in unnaturally as he tried to stop himself from falling.  The attempt was fruitless, as he found himself on his ass in a matter of less than a second.  The ice was unforgiving underneath him, with his tailbone feeling the hard impact and breathtaking pain.  On top of that, and even more severe, his left ankle was throbbing, already feeling inflamed.  He’d spilled coffee on his abdomen and thighs, which didn't feel too great either, having still been hot.

 

Tears burned his eyes as he sat there for a moment, trying to catch his breath in order to stand back up.  He tried to distract himself from his ankle, which hurt so bad that it scared him, and—

 

“Brendon?  Are you alright?”

 

Brendon closed his eyes and cursed his fate.  Of course Ryan would catch him at a time like this.

 

“Careful,” Brendon said, not looking at the boy approaching him, “it's icy.”

 

Ryan huffed and bent down beside him.  “I can see that.  Are you hurt?”

 

“I—uh, no,” Brendon said, and rushed to try and stand.  The second that he put any weight on his left foot, his ankle gave out with sharp pain, and he was falling back down again.

 

“You hurt your ankle,” Ryan observed.  “Let me help you, here.”  Ryan stood, holding his hands out for Brendon to grab onto.  Brendon reluctantly accepted the offer, taking Ryan's hands.  Much to Brendon's discomfort, Ryan had to pull him up, and he staggered to avoid standing on his left leg.  This caused him to lean quite heavily into Ryan, but Ryan steadied him.

 

“Thanks,” Brendon mumbled.  Ryan had an arm tightly around his waist, which was taking some of his attention away from the pain.  He opened the door for Brendon, helping him get inside the studio; whether Brendon's eyes were welling with tears was from the pain or the embarrassment, he wasn't sure.

 

“We’ll see what Pete says about this, okay?” Ryan said.

 

Pete was waiting for them at the front of the studio, sitting on a bench.  He stared at them blankly as they approached, but Brendon wasn't paying too much attention to him.

 

Ryan let go of his hold on Brendon, and gently eased him to sit down beside Pete.  Brendon's ankle throbbed, and, on impulse, he tried to move it, point his toes.  He couldn't move it at all, and the simple attempt made him wince.

 

“Hey, Pete,” Ryan said, breaking the silence, “Brendon hurt his ankle just now, and—”

 

“I can't move it,” Brendon said, biting his lip.

 

Pete sighed, and turned to face Brendon.  “Okay, I’ll look at it,” he said.

 

With as much care as possible, Brendon pulled his leg up on the bench.  He did everything in his power to avoid looking at the injury, instead staring up at Ryan.

 

“How’d you do this?” Pete asked, as he began taking Brendon's shoe off.

 

“I fell on the ice,” Brendon said.

 

“Just now?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Brendon couldn't cover up a noise of pain in the back of his throat when Pete began probing his ankle with his fingers.  He still didn't look at it, but could feel that it was swollen.  The tears came back to his eyes, and Ryan intervened.

 

“Stop it, you're hurting him,” Ryan said, and there was something akin to terror in his voice that made Brendon's stomach twist.

 

Pete abruptly stopped touching the injury.  “Yeah, it does look painful,” he agreed.  Brendon only raised an eyebrow at the apathy Pete was giving him.

 

“So what am I supposed to do about this?” Brendon asked.

 

Pete shrugged.  “Take him to the hospital, Ross. See if they can fix him up real quick.”

 

Ryan hesitated before saying, “Okay . . .”

 

Brendon still didn't feel like Pete had helped him at all, and persisted, “What do you think is wrong with it?”

 

“I don't know, I'm not a doctor,” Pete scoffed.

 

Brendon frowned and reached out for Ryan to help him up.  Ryan was quick to do so, a hand firm on his back to support him.  Reflex, Brendon told himself, made him wrap his arms around Ryan's neck to stand.

 

Their lips were dangerously close, and Brendon could see all the flecks of gold and green in Ryan's honey eyes.  He quickly turned away from the sight, hobbling towards the door again.  He was really relying on Ryan to walk, and silently let him lead.

 

“My car, okay?  I'll take you,” Ryan said.

 

Brendon didn't protest.  The pain was significant, and he didn't feel that it had gotten any better.  Driving was out of the question for him, since the pain was getting continually worse, meaning it was more attention-consuming.

 

The only thing distracting him was Ryan helping him out.  He opened the car door for Brendon, made sure he was inside before closing it.

 

“How does it feel?” Ryan asked him.

 

“It hurts,” Brendon choked out.

 

“I'm sorry.  They'll fix it up at the hospital,” Ryan assured him.  After a hesitation, he added, “Unlike fucking Pete.”

 

“It doesn't seem like he cares about it,” Brendon said.

 

“It's really weird.  He's acting really weird.”

 

Brendon shrugged.  He hadn't been paying enough attention.  “I guess so.”

 

“I wonder what's up with him,” Ryan hummed.

 

Brendon had barely talked to Pete since the night he took Ryan and himself out to the club.  Their schedules just hadn't aligned like that, and Brendon had been too busy teaching to attend lessons of his own.  Ryan had always been closer with Pete, anyway, Brendon figured, so he would know best.

 

“He might just be stressed over the show,” Brendon said.

 

“Yeah, that would make sense.  We’ve only got a couple more weeks.”

 

Hearing those words gave Brendon just a hint of a rush—nervousness, excitement, everything that came from performing.  One of his favorite parts of his job was being in front of an audience, putting on a show.

 

“It's so close,” Brendon said.

 

“Do you feel ready?  I know all the tap parts are looking good,” Ryan said with a smile.  “We’ll see about the ballet,” he teased.

 

Brendon scoffed.  “My dancers will totally outdo yours.”

 

“Keep dreaming.  We share dancers, though, last time I checked.”

 

The friendly banter had successfully distracted Brendon from the pain in his ankle.  It wasn't until Ryan was pulling up in front of the hospital that he remembered.  They parked outside the emergency room, and Brendon almost felt bad.  Being there made his injury seem more serious than it was.

 

“I'll help you out of the car, okay?” Ryan asked.

 

Brendon could feel his cheeks go hot, but he waited for Ryan, anyway.

 

Ryan had to practically carry him into the hospital, as Brendon could barely limp.  They went slowly, across the parking lot, and Brendon felt fidgety with Ryan touching him, his fingers digging into his ribcage.  He couldn't deny that he was leaning into Ryan more than necessary, but he was warm, and it was still raining, and Brendon's leggings and shirt were basically soaked through.

 

“You're freezing,” Ryan noted.

 

Brendon’s teeth chattered.

 

Ryan stopped them, and turned Brendon around to face him.  Still holding Brendon up with one arm around him, Ryan shrugged his own leather jacket off.  He swung it around Brendon, and adjusted it so it draped over his shoulders.  Brendon tucked it over his chest, shivering again.  The jacket was warm, and smelled like Ryan; vanilla and honey.

 

Ryan cleared his throat.  “Don't want you to get sick, too.”

 

Brendon broke the eye contact and murmured, “Thank you.” 

 

“Of course.”

 

With ease, Ryan walked him through the automatic doors of the hospital, and Brendon felt that he succeeded in keeping the weight off his ankle.  He didn’t know what he would have done without Ryan, at that point.  They entered a waiting room almost immediately, the nurse’s station right in front of them.

 

Standing still was somehow worse than moving.  He clutched Ryan's jacket over his chest in pain, knuckles going white.  Ryan noticed, and soothingly trailed his fingers down Brendon's spine.  Brendon took a sharp inhale and held it.

 

Due to his constant wincing, Ryan went ahead and explained the problem for him.  Brendon smiled along, trying his best to keep his composure.

 

They were told to simply wait a few moments for someone to examine Brendon's ankle.  The pain on top of the waiting usually would have made him impatient, but he felt better just by having Ryan there with him.  However, on a different level, Brendon felt bad and sort of awkward that Ryan was sitting in the waiting room of the hospital with him, and couldn’t help but try to diffuse things.  “You don’t have to stay with me, you know,” Brendon said.  “I can get a ride home when all of this is over, and you can go help Pete and conduct the rehearsal.  You probably should, really, so then someone can at least guide the tap sections.  And you know a thing or two about ballet, now, you could instruct my dancers a little bit—”

 

Ryan shook his head, making Brendon falter in his speech.  “No, I’ll stay with you.  You shouldn’t have to go through this alone,” Ryan sad.

 

Brendon couldn’t combat that, and only felt appreciative.  “Well, thank you.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Without Ryan, Brendon wouldn’t have been able to make it back to get an x-ray without making a total fool of himself.  He was relying on Ryan’s help way too much.

 

The entire examination was all mostly a blur after the first thing the doctor said to him—“With as much pain as you’re in, we’ll have to take an x-ray and run a few tests to see what the problem is.  From there, we can tell if it’s a fracture, sprain, or tear, so we can figure out just physical therapy or surgery is the best option for you.”

 

“Surgery?” Brendon replied, voice weak and questioning.

 

He couldn’t get surgery done on his ankle.  The injury couldn’t be that severe.  Because, if it was, then Brendon was fucked.  That kind of thing was devastating to dancers; muscle-weakening, performance-cancelling,  _ career-ending _ .  Brendon wasn’t ready for those things, and the mere thought made him freak out internally.  Any type of procedure on his feet or ankles would permanently change the way he danced, if he could even dance at all after the matter.

 

What would he do if he didn’t have ballet?  He didn’t have a backup plan, didn’t have enough money saved to keep himself living in the same place and in the same manner . . . He supposed he could still teach, but his passion was in performing and dancing pieces of choreography himself.  Surely one simple accident couldn’t hinder all of it, yet he was more than afraid.

 

He kept Ryan’s jacket tightly covering his body like a security blanket, as he was made to try to walk normally.  Ryan had eased him up from where he was sitting, and reluctantly let go of him for the doctor to watch him walk on his own.  Brendon couldn’t manage, paralyzing pain overtaking him as soon as he put any weight on his left foot.  He desperately grasped onto the wall to stop himself from falling face first to the tile, and just as quickly, Ryan’s hands were firm on his waist to catch him.

 

“Whoa, there,” Ryan said.

 

In that moment, Brendon felt exactly like a ballerina—one who had just fallen off a delicate balance _en_ _pointe_ and back into her partner’s waiting arms, keeping her from falling and ruining the combination.  But it was nothing like that, Brendon reminded himself, and waited for Ryan’s grip on his waist to loosen.

 

It didn’t.

 

Instead, Ryan stayed close and held him up, walking him to get his x-ray done without comment.  The close proximity of Ryan’s body to his own would typically have his heart beating fast, but he wasn’t fully processing it, too consumed with the fear of his ankle injury being extremely severe.

 

Over the next couple hours, he collected the information that his ankle was not fractured, and he did not, in fact, need surgery.  This came as a relief; however, the injury was one that would take time to heal.  At least six weeks, he was told, and that would come with physical therapy and doing all the right things to take care of himself.  Six weeks was far too long, Brendon thought, but then got distracted by the crutches he was forced to get.  Ryan had been listening to the doctor more than Brendon had, and Brendon was thankful he had Ryan to lead him around for the time being.

 

It took some adjusting to get used to the crutches, but they relieved Ryan of having to support Brendon around everywhere.  Brendon vaguely missed the feeling of Ryan’s hands on him, but his chest hurt for entirely different reasons.  The sprain was awful.

 

There was rain still falling when they left the hospital together.  Again, they took it slow to get to the car, with the crutches so foreign to Brendon.  The long, metal rods went in the backseat of Ryan’s car, and Brendon got in the front by himself just fine, but Ryan still cast him a worried look as he sat down.  “What?” Brendon asked, only for Ryan to stare right back at him.

 

“You look like you’re about to cry.  Does it still hurt?” Ryan questioned.  Brendon had taken painkillers earlier in their hospital visit, and they had worked, but Brendon didn’t really notice.  He wasn’t in pain anymore.

 

“No, I’m just . . . scared,” Brendon said.

 

“Of what?”

 

“Of what this injury all means.”

 

“It’s nothing to worry about, B.  Dancers get injured all the time, this isn’t that big of a deal—”  Ryan clambered in the car, and handed Brendon an ice pack.  Brendon could not recall where it came from, when it was placed in Ryan’s possession, or what to even do with it in the car.  Ryan broke the conversation to tell him, “Can you put your leg up on the dashboard?  To keep it elevated, you know?  And put the ice pack around it, there you go.”

 

Brendon lifted his leg up to rest near the windshield with ease, feeling grateful for the flexibility his hamstrings and hip flexors maintained.

 

Resting his ankle on top of the ice pack, Brendon resumed, “But the show, Ryan.  Mary Poppins.  It’s in two and a half weeks, and I don’t think I can perform it.”

 

“Oh.  Oh, shit.  I hadn’t even thought about that.”

 

“This is going to ruin the entire show for me.  There’s no way it’ll heal in time for me to dance at all.  This was my good turning side, and I need both legs for any of my jumps, and all of our balances were on this side—it’s impossible.”

  
“We could try reversing it?” Ryan suggested.  “I can do all my tap on the left instead of the right, and you can do left turns instead of right.”

 

“It’ll never work,” Brendon groaned.  “We worked so hard on that piece.  I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s okay, it’s okay.”

 

“I just—” Brendon could feel his throat closing up, eyes stinging, but he couldn’t stop himself.  “Maybe I wasn’t supposed to have a solo in this show, anyway.  You get to have your tap number, and Pete will just have to deal with it.  That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

 

“That’s not true,” Ryan defended.  “It won’t be nearly as good without you.  That piece would be nothing without you, Ballerina-boy.  I really don’t know what we’re gonna do.”

 

“You’re a talented choreographer.  You’ll figure it out.”

 

Ryan sighed.  “I’ll take my part out, too,” he decided.

 

Brendon choked on a sob.  “What? No.”

 

“Yeah, that’s the right way for it to be.  Ensemble can handle it.”

 

Ryan wasn’t looking at him, and Brendon let tears fall down his cheeks, feeling completely miserable.  That part was meant for Ryan, and Brendon had been the one to come and invade a tap piece in the beginning.  This was the way it should be, Brendon thought.  He wouldn’t be performing again for a long while.

 

“You could find a replacement for me,” Brendon tried.  “One of my girls can take the part, they pick up choreography fast.”

 

“No.  I won’t let anyone replace you,” Ryan said.

 

“This performance was gonna be so good,” Brendon sniffled.

 

“Hey, don’t cry,” Ryan said, getting a glimpse of him.  “Hey.  It’s all going to be okay, alright?  It’ll work out.  I promise.”  Ryan sounded nearly frantic as he told Brendon this.  He gave Brendon a reassuring smile, eyes searching his face.

 

Brendon sobbed again.  Not performing this show meant no more of the closeness with Ryan, no more seeing him everyday, none of the hand-holding or secret stares for Brendon to cherish when they were alone together.  The show was over, ending, as Brendon cried in Ryan’s car.

 

“Brendon.  Please.  You’re going to be okay.  Your ankle will get better, and this show will work itself out, and I’ll convince Pete to have us do Swan Lake next or something.  Then you’ll have the whole show, and I won’t even be there to bother you with tapping.  Is that better?”

 

Instead of answering, Brendon looked to his swollen and bruised ankle and felt his eyes overflow again.  Even more than performing, Brendon desired to see Ryan everyday, and the thought of losing that only made his sadness worse.

 

“I’ll take you back to your place, okay?  You need to rest.  You’ll have to give me directions . . .”

 

Brendon stopped crying as Ryan gently placed a hand on his knee, trying to comfort him.  He stared at Ryan in a way that was no short of longing, but he didn’t give a damn whether Ryan caught him or not.  Every time Ryan’s fingers stroked over his kneecap, Brendon felt himself relax a little bit more.  Watching Ryan’s face—the way his lips naturally pouted, the softness of his cheeks, his button nose, the light blue of his eyeliner—calmed Brendon down.  In no time, his eyelids were feeling heavy, and he barely managed to mumble the directions to his apartment to Ryan.

 

His face was sticky with dried tears, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.  Ryan handed him his crutches before he got out of the car, and watched to make sure he was balanced before stepping away.

 

Brendon didn’t even consider how unnecessary it was for Ryan to be walking him all the way to his unit, he just let it happen.  He took the elevator up, a habit he was far from acquainted to, and leaned against the back wall.  Ryan mirrored him, and succeeded in making Brendon feel less pathetic.

 

He invited Ryan into his place, but Ryan clearly wasn’t there to stay.  “You should go to bed,” he told Brendon.  Brendon couldn’t agree more, and clicked his way into his bedroom, Ryan right behind him.  Ryan took his crutches and leaned them up against the wall next to the bed, and pulled back the wrinkled covers for Brendon to get in.  Brendon’s vision went unfocused as he did so, and he could tell he would be asleep in minutes.

 

“Thank you,” he told Ryan.

 

“Do you need anything while I’m here?” Ryan asked.

 

“No, I’m okay.”

 

“Alright.  Well, if you do need anything, you can call me, and it’s no problem.”

 

“I don’t have your number,” Brendon said, and attempted a smile.

 

“I guess you don’t.  Here.”  Ryan looked through his pockets for a pen, but all he could produce was a stick of his eyeliner.  “This’ll work,” he claimed, and reached for Brendon’s arm.

 

Brendon gave it to him.

 

Ryan pulled up the sleeve to his own jacket on Brendon’s arm, took a moment to draw the numbers on, and lightly blew on the ink to get it to dry faster.  Brendon was too tired to even think of giving the jacket back to Ryan, but Ryan didn’t seem to mind.  “I’ll leave you alone now.  Just let me know if you don’t want to come in tomorrow, okay?  Everyone will understand.”

 

Brendon closed his eyes and nodded into his pillow.

 

“Feel better,” Ryan whispered, and was off.

  
Brendon cracked his eyes open to watch Ryan leave, and caught a glance of the familiar blue eyeliner on his arm before totally blacking out.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Musicals really are Brendon's thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to me for lowkey referencing Brendon getting cast on Broadway in this chapter.

Even with all the support and sympathy from Ryan, Brendon remained horribly unhappy with himself and his ankle injury over the next day or so.  He had sent Ryan a short message that he was taking the day off, and Ryan agreed with him that it would probably be the best thing for him.  Brendon felt that he needed some time to adjust before going back into the studio in order to see what he could and couldn't do, get used to walking on crutches, and learn to be even more careful in all of his movements.

 

The day was slow, and it agitated Brendon.  After accidentally putting himself in pain when he tried to balance on his injured side, and realizing he was incapable of getting through a simple ballet combination, he only felt unproductive and idle.  He hated the feeling of not being busy to the point of nearly being overwhelmed.  As he leaned back against the headboard, sitting in bed, obsessively flexing and pointing his toes on his right foot—his functioning, uninjured side—he felt a tinge of regret at staying home.  It may have been better to surround himself with people, may it be his own students, Pete, or Ryan, just to distract himself.  Better than sitting around feeling sorry for himself, he figured.

 

And maybe he missed Ryan a little bit, too.

 

He kept looking over at the black leather jacket hanging over a chair in his bedroom, and felt a bit guilty at not going in, even just to return it to Ryan.  The jacket was nice; warm and comfortable, and he knew Ryan would be wanting it back.  It was cold outside these days, especially with a near steady drizzle.  Ryan had been all too kind to provide him with his jacket—Brendon wouldn't quite let himself think more of it than that—and Brendon definitely owed it back to him.  Ryan was being extra caring with Brendon, in a sense, after they had gone out that night with Pete, but he didn't know why Ryan would feel the need to be that way with him.

 

With that rationale, he knew his best option would be to spend more time with Ryan, someone who could lift his spirits.  In turn, that meant he should get his shit together and go to the studio, but he was suddenly overcome with dread at the thought.  What was the point of going to a dance studio if he couldn't dance?

 

<<<<<>>>>>

 

The next day, Brendon was at the studio promptly on time to teach his beginning pointe ballet class.  He wore his typical ballet clothes, and remembered to bring Ryan's jacket to return when he saw him.

 

It was a struggle to simply get in and out of his car, dealing with his ankle and the clunky crutches, taking a few more moments than Brendon thought it was going to.  He almost fell in the parking lot— _ again _ —just because he was tripping over the crutches in front of him.  Standing still for a moment to regain his composure, he was glad there was no one around to watch him.  He tossed Ryan's jacket over his own shoulder, and made his way into the building.

 

His students were already in the room, waiting for him, and there was nobody in the general area of the studio, which disheartened him a bit more.  As much as he hated to admit it, he kind of needed something or someone to tell him that he could get through his classes.  From the time of walking from his car to the room, he confidence had tanked a bit more, and it all really crashed down around him when he saw the room of his dancers, in their pointe shoes, stretching and chatting by the barres.  There was an immediate wave of jealousy that hit him right when he opened the door, looking at all of them with their perfectly capable legs and muscles and lack of stupid crutches . . .

 

The room went silent, and all eyes were on him as he clicked his way into the room, across the floor, and to the corner where he slumped down in a chair.  None of the girls said a word, only stared, clearly shocked to see him in such a pathetic state, he thought.  After carefully and deliberately leaning his crutches against the mirrored wall, he leaned forward in his seat, staring back at the dancers.  “Well,” he said, bluntly, “what're you looking at me for?  First position, left hand at the barre.”

 

They all scrambled, and Brendon clenched his jaw as he put music on to lead the class.

 

A second thing he had noticed, after walking in the room, was that Ryan was absent from the ballet class he had been consistently taking since the beginning  _ Mary Poppins _ .  He had been banking on him being there, and only frowned at the fact he wasn't.  Not wanting anymore of a reminder, Brendon folded the leather jacket and zipped it up in his dance bag—out of sight, out of mind.

 

Brendon found himself being over-critical of his dancers, or at least more so than he usually was, and he could see the pressure he was putting on them all over their faces.  But if they were going to have functioning ankles, they should at least use them well, and work their hardest in ballet while they could.  If Brendon were to have a day where he was more on the critical, nitpicky side of his dancers, he wouldn't hesitate to walk around them, examine each of them personally, and then physically fix their positions to be correct.  Now, he knew he wouldn't be able to manage dealing with the dancers and his crutches the whole time, so he resorted to sulking and yelling more.

 

The dancers were probably mad at him, probably hated him, Brendon considered, but he couldn't quite care.  When he was a teenager in ballet, his instructors were way more strict than Brendon could ever dream of being.  He still shuddered when he thought about the old Ukrainian woman who coached him before he joined Pete’s studio, and the way she used to demean students to the point of quitting ballet all the time.  He remembered the day the girl who he partnered with in all their choreography made the decision to quit, with tears running down her face when she was told her legs looked too “stumpy” to ever get her anywhere in ballet.  Brendon himself had always put up with the same shit, too, so he didn't feel bad about giving his own students some plain, blunt, constructive criticism while he taught.

 

About ten minutes into class, as he was shouting at them to keep their hips over their toes when they were  _ en pointe _ , the door opened, and blue-lined hazel eyes were looking hesitantly inside.

 

Pulled out of his thoughts, Brendon watched Ryan ignore the girls and walk directly to him.  Ryan wasn't dressed for ballet, and he seemed to try to be discreet as he walked in the room.  Brendon abruptly cut off his lecture to the students to attempt a smile at Ryan, only to fail from the serious look on Ryan's face.

 

“Hi,” Brendon said, quietly, just loud enough for Ryan to hear over the music playing.  Ryan bit his lip.

 

“I need to talk to you.  Can we—” Ryan gestured to the door, and Brendon nodded.  He’d automatically do anything Ryan asked, in a heartbeat.  Ryan handed Brendon the crutches, holding the door for him when they left.

 

“Keep dancing!” Brendon called back, sternly, to the girls.

 

Even right outside the room, where it was quiet, and they were alone, Ryan spoke in hushed tones.  He took a deep breath, and said, “How are you feeling?”

 

Brendon was a bit taken aback at the question.  “Um, I'm fine,” he answered.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“I mean, I'm still pretty upset, but, it's not like a big deal or anything.”  He leaned back against the wall, taking the weight off his ankle.

 

“You sound so bitter,” Ryan said, looking down, but Brendon could still see his lips twitch up.

 

“What?”

 

“You sound like you did when we first met.  You talked to me like I was the scum of the earth, or something,” Ryan chuckled.

 

“That's because you are,” Brendon teased, although he desperately wanted to take back ever being rude to Ryan, wishing he had realized his feelings sooner.

 

Ryan gasped, dramatically acting offended, and said, “That's the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

 

“It's only because you’re a tap dancer, Ross,” Brendon grinned.

 

“Whatever, Ballerina-Boy,” Ryan said, with a fond eye-roll.

 

Brendon could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, and felt so stupidly gravitated to Ryan, he just wanted to kiss him right there.  Yelling and being pissed off with young dancers seemed so utterly stupid when he had this in front of him.

 

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” Brendon asked, trying to sway his mind by getting back to more serious matters.  This caused the light-hearted expression on Ryan's face to fall, and Brendon's feelings sunk hopelessly with it.

 

“Well, I was late to ballet, obviously, but it was because I was talking to Pete.”

 

“Oh—okay.  You-you don't have to make a formal excuse or anything, it's not like I'm going to kick you out—”

 

“Mikey left him,” Ryan blurted out.

 

Brendon let the words hang there for a moment, trying to comprehend that Ryan had just told him information that could even be remotely correct.  “Mikey left Pete?”

 

“Pete’s not taking it well,” Ryan confirmed.

 

Brendon frowned.  That news seemed sad to him, as he was usually looking up to Pete and Mikey’s relationship.  It had seemed like they’d been together forever, but it was really just as long as Brendon knew Pete.  Whenever Brendon was lonely, he usually would think of how one day maybe he would be lucky enough to have a relationship like Pete and Mikey’s, but he guessed he was wrong all along.  Their relationship wasn't picture perfect.

 

On the other hand, Brendon didn't know why Ryan would pull him out of teaching ballet to tell him this.  While Pete was their friend and boss, this was really just gossip that didn't affect them, or so he thought.

 

“I feel bad for him,” Brendon said.

 

Ryan looked down at his shoes.  “That's not all.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“It's, uh—like, I know he's just emotional and freaking out right now over the breakup, so he's being really drastic.”

 

“When did it happen?”

 

“Right before you messed up your ankle, I think.  But he’s making some really rash decisions, so I just thought I would tell you . . .”

 

Brendon's eyes shot up.  “What does that mean?”

 

“He—he says he wants to cancel the show because he can't handle it,” Ryan said, trying to gently break the news.

 

“Mary Poppins?”

 

“Yeah, he wants to cut it.”

 

Brendon's mouth dropped open.  “But he can't do that!  The show is only a couple weeks away, we’ve never done anything like that before.  People already have tickets—”

 

“I know, I know.  It's not right, but he has the power to do that, you know?”

 

“I—I guess.  Did you at least try to talk him out of it?” Brendon asked.

 

“He was just rambling, really, and I was more concerned when he said he wanted to close the studio—”

 

“He wants to close the studio?” Brendon exclaimed, the words coming out before he even realized it.

 

“Shh, I think I was able to talk him out of it, it'll be okay.”

 

“But.  But this is my life, he can't close the studio, he can't cancel the show, this is ridiculous, how could he?  How can he even talk about doing this?  Pete’s life is this studio, too, he can't, he  _ can't _ —”

 

“I don't think he will, but he could, so I just wanted to tell you,” Ryan said, meekly.  “I wanted to be the one to tell you, before he called you and had the same depressing rant for you that he had for me.”

 

“Thanks,” Brendon managed.  He was still trying to process it, everything Ryan had just said, but it wasn't really working.

 

“You're welcome,” Ryan mumbled, avoiding eye contact again.

 

Brendon bit his tongue, not wanting to continue expelling his anger in front of Ryan.  It was still bubbling inside him, at Pete.  Just because Pete wanted to sulk, didn't mean he had the right to go and alter Brendon's life and everyone’s at the studio.  That wasn't fair to any of them.  This was Brendon's job, everything he’d dedicated his career and whole life to.  There was no way Pete could ruin that for him; there was no way Brendon was going to let him do it.

 

“I should go back inside,” Brendon said, keeping his voice level and strong.

 

“Yeah, yeah.  We can talk about this later, if you want.”

 

Brendon nodded, and suppressed a wince as he adjusted his body with the crutches.

 

Through the rest of the ballet class, Brendon's attitude didn't change towards the students, working them hard.  He could see them struggling more and more as the time drew on, but if this was going to be one of the last ballet classes taught at the studio, then it was a good way to leave.  He was kind enough to only lecture the entire class, and not target any specific dancer, even if that was abnormal for him.

 

Brendon was especially tempted to get up and go fix his dancers when Ryan arrived.  Ballet had become Brendon's excuse, of sorts, to have the opportunity to be close in a somewhat intimate way since they'd stopped having their daily rehearsals.  Brendon was able to skim his fingers over Ryan's limbs or torso, and it would be enough to effectively communicate what Brendon wanted fixed.  Ryan caught on quickly.  It wasn't just that Brendon liked having Ryan at his fingertips—Brendon was also seeing results in Ryan from his new ballet training.  He was getting closer and closer to keeping up with and being on the level of the other girls in the class, and Brendon was impressed.

 

Maybe secretly, Brendon kept his eyes on Ryan the whole class, only glancing at the other girls every few eight-counts.  By the time dancers signed up for Brendon’s classes, they were advanced and had a background in ballet, so Ryan was truly the first beginner Brendon had ever taught.  In a way, seeing the results of Ryan's improvement made him more proud than he was with other students.

 

Brendon knew, on the other hand, that he was putting all his dancers to shame that night.  He was giving combinations that were way above their level, and it wasn't like he could demonstrate to help them understand what they were supposed to do.  That didn’t help at all, as Brendon was tearing into them about their legs not being all the way straight, or their arms not being curved exactly the way he wanted them to be.

 

They were all sweating and looked pained by the time Brendon dismissed him.  Ryan left last, and looked behind his shoulder at Brendon for a split second before leaving.  Brendon watched him flash a small smile under his messy bangs, but didn’t have time to smile back before Ryan was closing the door behind himself.

 

Later that night, when all of Brendon’s classes were over and he was finally home, he felt waves of exhaustion hit him.  It was interesting, as he really hadn’t done any work—only being overly strict and pouring himself into his teaching—but he couldn’t resist throwing himself down on his bed, still in dance clothes, and close his eyes.  Within less than five minutes, his momentary peace was disturbed, as he could hear his phone vibrating somewhere near by.  He let it go for a few rings, filled with dread at the prospect of getting up and thinking about what Ryan had said concerning Pete.  The last thing he wanted was to listen to Pete talk about how sad he was and how he was going to cancel the single thing Brendon had been working on for months.

 

He forced himself up, knowing deep down that it was generally a bad idea to ignore a call from your boss.  He abandoned his crutches in favor of hanging onto a chair and hopping over to his dance bag, fishing through it for his phone.  When he found it, he answered it without looking at the caller ID, rushing so that he wouldn't miss the call altogether.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey, Brendon?”

 

“Oh—oh, hey, Ryan,” Brendon properly greeted.  That voice was unmistakable.

 

“Are you busy?”

 

“No, no, I'm just at home.”

 

“Okay, yeah, me too.”

 

“So . . . what's up?”  Brendon sunk back down on his bed, holding his phone.

 

“Nothing, really.  Nothing new.”

 

Brendon felt a tremor of nerves go through him, which was strange when it came to talking to Ryan.  When he was alone and just talking to him on the phone, it made him more aware of everything; the only time when how he felt about Ryan really impacted the way he spoke and acted.  “Why—why're you calling?” Brendon asked.

 

“I wanted to know if you maybe . . . wanted to talk about things more?  You know, like about Pete.”

 

“Yeah, we can talk about it,” Brendon said.

 

“I, uh, don’t want you to worry about any of this.  I know things have been pretty upsetting for you lately, and I probably shouldn’t have added to that,” Ryan explained.

 

“It’s okay.  I’m glad you told me.  I would rather worry about it than just not know at all.”

 

“You shouldn’t have to worry.  We can—we can figure this out.”

 

“What is there to figure out?” Brendon asked.  He didn't know what him and Ryan would have the power to change.  If Pete wanted to cancel a show, then as the owner of the studio, that was his call.  He was technically the one running it, anyway.  And if he wanted to close the studio, then that was his business decision to make.

 

Yet, just as Brendon was going through that very thought process, Ryan answered, “How we’re gonna keep the show going.”

 

“But if Pete closes the studio, then it won't even matter,” Brendon countered.

 

“He won't, he won't,” Ryan said, but his voice seemed to be wavering, lacking the confidence Brendon needed to truly be reassured.  “Once he’s thinking a little more clearly, he’ll realize that he can't.  Or at least shouldn't.”

 

“What’ll we do?” Brendon asked.

 

“We’ll just have to talk him out of it.”

 

“But what if we can't?”

 

Ryan was silent for a moment, and Brendon could feel himself get more worried.  “We’ll just have to find somewhere else to work . . . I guess.”

 

Brendon's stomach turned at the idea.  “Fuck,” Brendon muttered, “this is really bad.”

 

“Everything will work out, Brendon.  At least I'm confident it will all work out for you.”

 

“What do you mean?  If the studio closes, I don't have a job, I won't have anything.”

 

“You’d have a spot at any dance company you wanted.  The hard part for you would be picking.”

 

“I don't know about that—Pete gave me the best deal I could get, and I'm older now than—”

 

“You're older now, so you're better.  That just means you're better at dance now than you were back then.  Everyone will come looking for you if they find out you don't have a job, and you'll still be able to perform.”

 

“You make it sound so easy,” Brendon said.

 

“It would be, for you.  There are a ton of professional ballet companies, and you're so talented, you'd do well. Nobody wants to hire tap dancers, you know?”

 

“Of course people want to hire tap dancers!  Tap is more relevant than ballet these days, I would think it would be easier for you—”

 

“When do you ever see or hear anything about tap from outside our studio?  It's just not relevant enough.”

 

Brendon fumbled for words for a moment.  “What about all those famous tap dancers, like Fred Astaire, and most musicals have tap in them, like Broadway.  See!  You could do Broadway!” Brendon said.

 

Ryan simply laughed.  “ _ You _ could do Broadway, B.  That's not my forte.”

 

“We’re both in a musical right now,” Brendon argued.

 

“We’re both dancers.  I don't know what I would do if the studio closes.”

 

“I think you'd be good at anything,” Brendon said, quietly.  “Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

 

Again, the conversation fell silent.  Brendon cursed himself for his choice of words—he didn't think he could be any more obvious about his true feelings for Ryan.  Why did he have to be so smitten for him?  It made it so hard to contain himself.

 

“I would hate working anywhere else, outside the studio.  I wouldn't have anyone, either, you know?”

 

“I’d never see you anymore,” Brendon let out, in one breath, and he felt his chest sink as it hit him.  Pete’s decision to close the studio would end any semblance of a relationship that Brendon had with Ryan, and any chance of their friendship progressing into anything more would be ruined.  Brendon thought himself foolish for even hoping anything would come from it, but he still wanted to cling to the hope of maybe.

 

Little did Brendon know, he had just started a new segment of the conversation, that would last for hours as he laid in bed with his phone to his ear.  “We can't have that happen,” Ryan said.  “I won't allow it.”

 

Brendon couldn't help but grin at Ryan's determined tone, spirits rising already.  “Yeah?  What're you gonna do?”

 

“We could run the studio together, and take over for Pete.”

 

“Do you think Pete would let us? I mean, this is his business, how—?”

 

“Pete loves us.  I bet he would be glad to give it to us, even if it's only temporary.”

 

“We would have so much work, and right before a show . . .” While Brendon was protesting the idea, on instinct, it did give him some sparks of hope that things were going to be okay, even if Pete did close the studio.

 

“Pete already wants to cancel it, so it couldn't get any worse if we stepped in.”

 

“I guess you're right . . .”

 

They stayed on the phone for hours, planning out hypothetical schedules and plans for keeping the show going.  Everything fell into place, and Ryan made it absolutely flawless when he proposed that the show be put on hold until Brendon's ankle healed.  That way Brendon would not only be able to perform, but every aspect of the show would be polished and perfected by the time it was put on.  Now, all they had to do was convince Pete to keep the studio open, and have him hand over the reigns of his director position.

 

It was a lot later than Brendon was used to being awake when he got off the phone.  Ryan had left him with optimism that their jobs were secure and everything was going to fall perfectly into place.  Although Brendon was tired, his eyelids drooping and ballet posture failing, he forced himself up and over his crutches.  There was a lingering motivation to be productive within him, so he managed to shower and go through his normal routine to get ready for bed.  As he was organizing his dance bag for the next day, finding Ryan's leather jacket remaining inside, a feeling of contentedness came over him.  The thought of Ryan and everything he had done for Brendon made him feel at ease.

 

Brendon had never felt this way about anyone, and even with all of the crushing and internal fawning he had been doing over Ryan, he felt elated and so very relieved to have Ryan there for him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things fall into place, some things don't.

Brendon typically would have been terror-stricken for the day that he was going to be in charge of running an all-cast rehearsal, had he been doing it completely alone.  With Ryan's encouragement, and natural kindness to all the studio’s dancers, setting up the rehearsal went smoothly. The rehearsal was scheduled and mandatory for everyone who was taking part in the production, so it was going to be a big day. Ryan and Brendon didn't  _ exactly  _ have permission from Pete to be going through with it, but they were in agreement that the rehearsal would be nothing less than absolutely necessary.  They didn't know what other choice they had, as they were both too determined to continue the production than to sit back and just let it go to shambles.  Pete had completely fallen off the radar, not answering Ryan's or Brendon's calls, never showing up at the studio.  He hadn't been heard from by either of them in weeks.

 

Although they were both worried about him, there was nothing much they could do.  Powering through rehearsals kept the studio lively and moving, despite his absence.  Brendon found himself to be quite proud of Ryan and himself for managing it on their own.

 

On the day of their first all-cast rehearsal, Brendon met Ryan at the theater early.  It was nothing unusual; this had been their schedule for a couple months now, ever since Pete assigned them to work on their piece together.  Ryan appeared to be in a bright, optimistic mood, which was always pleasant, albeit fairly unusual.  Brendon was happy to see him, and his presence alone was enough to reassure Brendon that the rehearsal would go just fine.  With him and Ryan alone in the theater, everything felt secure and normal to Brendon, his confidence in his teaching and directing abilities rising.

 

A few moments after Ryan greeted him—all smiles and kindness that made Brendon all too aware of his heart pounding—Brendon saw Ryan’s elated mood deflate slightly..  “B,” he said, clearing his throat, “where are your crutches?”

 

Brendon could only beam back.  “At my apartment—” Ryan gave him a stern look—“I don’t need them anymore.”  It was true, as he was walking almost normally.  There was only a slight discomfort when he landed a jump on his bad ankle, but he didn’t consider it to be a big deal.  He was managing to do everything else just fine, from pointing his toes to balancing to carefully doing his turns.  Nobody else would know that his ankle felt a bit weaker than he was used to, or that he was dancing a whole two weeks before the doctors said he was supposed to.  He was convinced it would be okay for him to dance with Ryan during the rehearsal that day, having tested most of it out that morning at home.  Things were going better than expected for his dance world at the moment.

 

Ryan, on the other hand, didn’t seem so sure. “But you’re supposed to avoid putting pressure on it until it’s been six weeks,” he said, sounding alarmed.

 

Brendon shrugged.  “I guess it just healed faster than they thought it would.”

 

“Doesn’t it still hurt?”

 

“Nope.”  He bounced up onto the stage, grabbed the barre, and pulled himself into a  _ passé  _ position to emphasize his point.

 

Ryan gulped visibly.  “Be careful,” he said.

 

Brendon  _ develope’d _ his right leg up, and did a  _ balancé _ to move closer to Ryan, focusing more on the dramatics of it all than the technicality.  “I won’t hurt myself until at least after the show, I promise,” he chuckled.

 

“That doesn’t matter.  You need to rest it so it doesn’t get any worse; I can go get you your crutches if you need them, and some padding to keep it comfortable—”

 

“I’m fine, I don’t need anything.  And I’m going to dance this rehearsal today because we need to see what has to be fixed in our piece, and we’re not going to get that if I’m just sitting and watching.”

 

There was a pause in their debate, Ryan biting his lip and considering.  His eyeliner glimmered and made him look like they were going onstage to perform the show to an audience that day.  Brendon thought he looked stunning.  “But won’t it be worse if you fall and re-injure it?”

 

“Well, you’ll just have to catch me,” Brendon said, triumphant.

 

<<<<<>>>>>

 

Once the theater filled up with the cast and the dancers for the rehearsal, Brendon felt himself get nervous again at the sight of all the people he was responsible for directing.  It was entirely different from performing in front of a large audience, as he never had to speak to them, never had to organize and command the crowd.  The familiar faces and behavior of his ballet students comforted him, but they were few amongst the group that made up all the members of the production—strangers, people who obviously were around the studio sometimes, but Brendon had never come into contact with.

 

Ryan stayed close to Brendon, which was appreciated.  At five minutes past when the rehearsal was called, Ryan and Brendon were sitting in the seventh row of the house beside each other, observing and chatting about the piano Ryan had at home.  Brendon was amazed at all the little details Ryan knew about his instrument; he decided he could listen to Ryan talk about it for days.  The discussion made him feel a slight longing to play, have the keys under the mercy of his fingertips, maybe even with  Ryan sitting at the bench beside him.  He could only imagine how elegant Ryan's spindly fingers would look, traveling over the keys with a different kind of grace than any genre of dance . . .

 

“Should we start?” Brendon asked, referring to the rehearsal when there was a rare lull in his and Ryan's conversation.

 

Ryan checked the time and nodded.  “I think everyone’s ready.”  Ryan stood, and Brendon followed suit, trailing awkwardly behind him to find a place on center stage.  Traditionally for productions, this was where Pete would stand to greet everyone at the first all-cast rehearsals.  Although somewhat empowering, Brendon had a nagging sinking feeling within him when he considered taking Pete’s place.  Pete was a good director–great even–and Brendon enjoyed working under him—his absence already seemed to have left an empty space in their rehearsal.

 

The lights were all still on inside the house, and Brendon could see just how large the cast really was.  There had to be more than a hundred people there, filling up the entire first section of the seating.  Brendon didn't know how he was supposed to direct some of these people, some who weren't even dancers, just actors and singers.  He wished that during his time in past productions, he had paid more attention to what Pete had to say during announcements so he would have something to copy.

 

Brendon glanced over at Ryan, who had an expression on his face that matched how Brendon felt inside.  At least he wasn't alone.  Just from the two of them standing onstage together the mass of people had quieted to a murmur, but it wasn't enough to get anybody's attention on them.

 

Ryan cast an unsure look to Brendon, who shrugged, feeling stiff and unhelpful.  In tap classes at the studio, Ryan usually didn't have to try to get any of his students’ attention, captivating on his own from his demeanor and mere talent.  It was different in front of a crowd of this size, and Brendon could tell Ryan didn't have any more of a clue than he did on what to do.

 

Almost experimentally, Ryan opened his mouth, and, slightly louder than his normal speaking voice, said, “Um, hi.”  He faced the audience, where there were absolutely no eyes on him, Brendon observed.

 

“Louder, maybe,” Brendon suggested, trying his best to be encouraging.

 

Ryan cleared his throat.  “Hey, guys,” Ryan said, only marginally louder than before.  His words elicited the same lack of reaction, and he eyed Brendon once more.

 

Brendon smiled, and touched Ryan's elbow, in an attempt to be reassuring.  “Good morning, everyone,” Brendon said, projecting his voice at an appropriate volume to be heard.  The talking died down, and Brendon felt a hundred pairs of eyes turn to him and Ryan.  At that, Brendon felt himself involuntarily turn his gaze to Ryan as well, and Ryan's eyes were wide, like a doll’s.  “Go ahead,” Brendon whispered to him, hoping he had something brilliant to say.

 

Ryan shook his head, and whispered back, “You talk.”

 

With Ryan relying on him, the words flowed much easier from Brendon's lips.  Being in front of an audience never bothered him, anyway.  “Today we’re here to rehearse Mary Poppins, for the first time, all together.  I'm Brendon Urie, I teach ballet at the Seattle studio, and, uh, this is Ryan Ross, he teaches tap at the Seattle studio, too.  We’ll be directing today just to fill in for Pete Wentz.  I'm sure you all know who he is.”  There was a quiet ripple of laughter, and Brendon grinned.  “Today we’re not rehearsing with costumes, but I hope you brought your dance shoes—especially you, pointe dancers.  We’re going to try to get through the entire show, no matter how long it takes, because we will be stopping to fix things that need to be changed.  That's pretty much it, but, um, dance full out, and please know your choreography, it's not too late for us to make cuts.  Let's take it from the top of show,” Brendon announced.

 

At those final words, the house broke into commotion as everyone got to their places.  Brendon exhaled, and began walking back into the house where he and Ryan would be watching the production unfold.

 

“You know, even though you're nice in real life and, like, my best friend and everything, you're still a scary ballet teacher,” Ryan said.

 

“How so?” Brendon laughed.

 

“Threatening to make cuts at this stage of the show, that's pretty harsh,” Ryan said.

 

“It's not that bad,” Brendon shrugged.  “My first solo was when I was an understudy, and he got cut the day before the show.”

 

Ryan looked startled.  “Why?” He simply asked.

 

“He kept messing up his choreography, and I had perfected it weeks before the show, just in case.”

 

“No, why didn't you have the solo to begin with?”

 

Brendon knew the exact reason, and could still hear the voice of his Ukrainian ballet teacher telling him his hips weren't narrow enough for him to be the prince in  _ The Nutcracker _ that year.  Instead of telling Ryan that, Brendon said, “I don't have the ballet physique some people look for.”

 

Ryan opened his mouth like he was about to protest when a profound, gentle, male singing voice began to ring through the theater, signaling the beginning of the production.  The character of Bert entered the stage, played by a man who Brendon had only seen pictures of from past productions.  “Holy shit,” Brendon muttered to Ryan, “he’s really fuckin’ tall.” 

 

“Well, at least people will be able to see him,” Ryan responded, laughing lightly.

 

For the first few scenes of the production, Brendon simply watched the show with nothing to say.  Ryan stood up soon enough to observe the tap dancers—who performed more often throughout this show specifically—and watch all of their movements, point out his critiques as needed over the singing, and the thunderous noise of the tapping.  This gave Brendon an opportunity to admire him from afar, nearly completely distracting him from the performers onstage.  Ryan’s critiques were few and far between, mostly giving praise to his dancers for how well their dancing was flowing into the live music.  Occasionally he would shout out the counts to keep the tapping in the right rhythm, but other than that, he had nothing but kind things to say.  Brendon could never imagine teaching that way, always searching for perfection in his ballet pieces—an unrealistic goal.  It was noticeable when Ryan gave corrections that his dancers took them and responded, so, maybe, Brendon contemplated, he should try being more lenient in his teaching style as well.

 

Brendon just kind of thought Ryan was perfect in everything he did.

 

Towards the beginning of the show, there was a single ballet number, as an ensemble piece for the song  _ Spoonful of Sugar _ .  To watch more closely, Brendon moved to stand beside Ryan in front of the stage, ready to correct and fix the select number of ballet dancers onstage.  “What’re you doing up?  With your ankle—you should sit back down,” Ryan worried.

 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Brendon said, with a smile.  Ryan looked down his body at his ankle, as if he expected it to give out underneath Brendon right then and there.  “If I can dance on it, then I’m sure just standing will be okay.”

 

Ryan gulped, and Brendon watched his Adam’s apple move up and down, becoming even more prominently defined.  Brendon had a sudden mental image of feeling it move under his own fingertips, or maybe his lips.  Abruptly, he was snapped out of it by hearing a loud boom echo from the stage, and his eyes immediately turned to focus on the dancer whose legs had crumpled underneath her onstage.

 

She was one of Brendon’s pointe dancers, and she had been given the front and center position in the piece.  The show was going on around her still, but she hadn’t stood back up yet—an obvious sign that she was hurt.  “Stop, stop,” Brendon called over the commotion, and within a few seconds the whole theater had gone silent, aside from a few hushed whispers.  Brendon approached the edge of the stage, holding his hands out to the girl on the ground in front.  “Come here, you’re okay,” Brendon said, softly.  She crawled from her bent and twisted position to where Brendon was holding his hands out to her.  From there, Brendon gently lifted her from off the stage, bringing her lithe body down into the house.  Ryan rushed to his side to help him carry her to a seat in the house, setting her down with ease.

 

Already, there were tears running down her face, and Brendon was highly concerned she had a severe injury.  “What happened?” was the first thing Brendon asked, calm and sinking down beside her.

 

“I—I was going up en pointe for a  _ battement _ , and-and I was leaning back too far, so—so,” she said, struggling not to cry.

 

“Hey, it’s okay, it happens.  Where are you hurt?” Brendon said.

 

“J-just my hip, I think it’s just bruised.”

 

“Okay, alright.”

 

She fidgeted for a moment with the ribbon on her pointe shoe, wincing from the slight movement of her leg alone.  “I can keep dancing, it’s fine,” she said decidedly, and wiped the tears off her face.

 

“You don’t have to.  If you’re hurt, you can sit the rehearsal out, and I’m sure we could get you some ice,” Brendon assured.

 

“You won’t—you won’t cut me from the show?” She asked, a tremor in her voice that wasn’t from the pain.

 

Brendon scoffed, and felt a pang of guilt at her words.  “Of course not, darling.  I sprained my ankle just walking, and I’m still doing the show.  It’s no different for you.”

 

She nodded, and looked at Brendon to smile.  “Thank you,” she said, and stood up.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah, I just needed a minute,” she said, and clambered back onstage.

 

“Let’s go from the top of the number,” Brendon announced, and there was a moment of chaos before the performance and musical noise started again.

 

“Your dancers are just like you,” Ryan said, from the seat beside Brendon.

 

“Nah, I don’t deal with injuries that well,” Brendon brushed off.

 

“Says you, who decided to start dancing just four weeks after a major ankle sprain.”

 

“Yeah, but I was all pathetic about it for, like, days afterwards.”

 

“You just care a lot about what you do.  It’s understandable.”

 

Brendon shrugged and looked down.

 

“And I take back everything I said about you being a scary ballet teacher.  You’re actually just all heart, aren’t you?” Ryan said, grinning as if he were triumphant in some way.

 

Brendon was suspicious that his own cheeks were flushing, and he said, “You caught me,” with a grin that mirrored Ryan’s.

 

“You are a better teacher than me, though.  I’m too nice with my dancers.  You don’t mess around,” Ryan said.

 

“I was just thinking earlier that I should teach more like you, since I’m so hard on them.”

 

“But they look good.  They’re close to perfect.”

 

“So are yours!” Brendon said.

 

“Maybe you should be the one correcting the tap dancers today.  You always seem to have something important to say to the ballet dancers, and you know enough about tap now to have some good input.”

 

“Not nearly as good as yours.”

 

The performance went on, and Brendon stood up again to watch the ballet parts.  He raised up on his toes to demonstrate to his dancers what he wanted from them, and his previously injured ankle popped as he did so.  Ryan heard the noise that it made, and called, “Brendon,  _ please _ don’t hurt yourself again, I’m serious.”

 

“It didn’t hurt,” Brendon laughed, “it’s normal.”

 

Ryan still had a concerned look on his face, and joked, “Sit down before  _ I _ cut you from the show.”

 

Brendon rolled his eyes, endeared with Ryan’s worrying, but found himself sitting down next to him once more.  From that point forward, they talked their dancers through the show, together.  Brendon felt confident enough to add small corrections on top of Ryan’s to the tap pieces, and Ryan quietly thanked him every time.

 

When the time came for them to perform  _ Step In Time _ , Ryan secured the laces of his tap shoes, and Brendon lead the way onstage for them to dance.

 

In Brendon's opinion, the piece was a disaster.  Right out of the gate, the pirouettes he had mastered for the routine failed—he only hit a triple turn, instead of making the six rotations that he’d originally choreographed.  Then, moving through the piece, whenever he hit a jump, he would be half a count off every time.  He started to get frustrated, knowing that every little mistake stemmed from his ankle, which was significantly weakened from the lack of use over the past  month.  There just wasn't as much strength in it as he was used to, and it certainly wasn't balanced with his other fully-functioning joint.  For the few weeks that he was unable to dance, he had been able to keep exercising his uninjured side, maintaining the strength he had before.  But now, that was gone on one side, and it was throwing him off quite a bit.

 

It was as he was making his way across the stage with a series of turns in rapid succession, making his way towards Ryan, that he felt a strange tingling in his ankle, almost going numb.  He felt his turns losing their power, and right when he was about to hit a jump, standing beside Ryan, he didn’t have the strength to propel himself in the air.  Instead, when he still attempted to make the move, his center of balance was off.  His stomach dropped, and he knew he was about to fall right on his ass, in front of everyone, in front of Ryan.  He held his breath and squeezed his eyes shut to prepare for the sharp pain that would inevitably shoot through his tailbone when he hit the ground, but it never came.  There were hands under his elbows, gripping him and springing him back on his feet.  The sounds of tap shoes hitting the floor and and a strong singing voice continued around him, and he blinked, momentarily disoriented.

 

As soon as he realized that he hadn’t fallen, that he wasn’t injured, he picked back up on the choreography and kept dancing to the best of his abilities.  When the time came for him and Ryan to hold hands and pose for the audience, he mouthed the words, “Thank you,” to Ryan, who smiled in return.

 

Aside from Brendon's slip ups, the rest of the show flowed well.  It was originally scheduled to have already opened, so Brendon wasn't really surprised.  The whole cast had their parts memorized and performance-ready—everyone but Brendon, apparently.  His poor run-through of the piece was bothering him, building up and taking over most of his thoughts as he watched the rest of the show.

 

He had been worried as soon as he injured his ankle that it would be something that would permanently affect his dancing.  Now that he felt that it was healed, he wasn't as strong as he was before, and it was as if his fears were becoming a reality.  It was pointless for them to have postponed the show at all, if Brendon wasn't going to be able to dance well in it, no matter how much time he was given.

 

As the rehearsal ended, and the theater emptied, Brendon seemed to be drowning in his thoughts of worry.  He stared down at himself, sitting completely still apart from pointing and flexing his left ankle until his muscles burned.  Even then, he grit his teeth and pushed through it, determined to rebuild strength in any way he could.

 

He was focused, and it was quiet in the theater, until he heard Ryan ask him, “Are you okay?”

 

Brendon looked up, letting his ankle relax and loosen, to see Ryan leaning against the front of the stage.  Wanting to avoid looking in Ryan's concerned eyes, Brendon turned his attention back to his ankle, and shrugged.  “I'm fine.”

 

“Does it hurt?” Ryan said, pushing himself up to sit on the edge of the stage, legs dangling off.

 

Brendon stood to rise on his toes, gather his things.  There was no reason for the two of them to stick around when rehearsal was over.  “It doesn't hurt.  It's just weak,” Brendon answered.

 

“It's not that bad.  You did fine during our dance.”

 

“I fell,” Brendon countered.  “And I would've probably embarrassed myself if you hadn't caught me.”

 

Ryan considered this for a moment before replying, “It’s a lot for you right now, to just jump back into the show.  You're supposed to be staying off it altogether for another two weeks.  You can't expect yourself to be perfect already.”

 

Only mildly comforted, Brendon said, “I'm never perfect.  I just want to be able to practice my jump and my turns so they're decent before the show.  They don't have to be that good yet, I just want to be able to do them.”

 

“Then practice it right now.”  Ryan gestured to the empty stage behind him, and Brendon sighed.

 

He stood up anyway to take Ryan's suggestion, but he still felt wary.  “I can't even hit a triple pirouette,” he said.

 

Ryan rolled his eyes.  “I've seen you hit, like, twelve.  You'll get there in no time,” he reassured.

 

Brendon prepped to go into his turns, and Ryan flipped around to watch.  As soon as Brendon started the rotation, he knew he wasn't going to make more than three, but he tried anyway.  He caught himself from falling halfway through the fourth turn, and groaned in frustration.  Immediately, he focused his eyes on a spot at the back of the house, and launched into another set of turns, determined to make them better.  This time, he only made a double pirouette, before his ankle decided it didn't want to support him anymore.

 

“Fuck,” he said, when he landed.  “I guess it'll just have to look bad onstage.  Hopefully no one will notice.”

 

He tried his turns a couple more times, remaining unsuccessful.  A sinking, dreadful feeling hit him of this being the dancer that he would become, permanently unable to complete steps he had mastered years ago.

 

“You're doing better,” Ryan said, encouragingly, but Brendon couldn't bring himself to believe him.

 

“I look terrible.  I don't want to be bad at dance now, and I just—I'm scared, like, what if I don't get over this?  I'm just gonna be putting myself back years, and my students will be way better than me, so how am I going to teach?  I wasn't even that great at ballet before, but now—”

 

“Bullshit. You're a gorgeous dancer,” Ryan said.

 

Brendon huffed, and sat beside him; defeated.  “You don't have to say that.”

 

“I mean it.”  Ryan's voice was soft, and it demanded Brendon's attention, forcing him to meet Ryan's eyes with a look that he knew gave away everything—gave away how his heart was pounding from hearing Ryan speak, from being so close to him, how all his worried thoughts had abruptly shut off when he looked at Ryan, the way he simply felt enamored with no method of controlling it.  He knew, vaguely, that he shouldn't be trembling just from Ryan complimenting his dance abilities, but something in the air felt different.  Suddenly he couldn't bear to hold eye contact with Ryan without doing something stupid and rash, so he tore his eyes away to look at his lap.

 

The second he looked away, he heard Ryan's intake of breath before speaking, and, although it only came out as a whisper, Ryan's words stuck him harder than anything—“You're gorgeous even when you aren't dancing.”

 

Brendon felt frozen, and he couldn't find any words to say.  His eyes slowly gravitated to Ryan's hand, resting on the edge of the stage between them, and he gulped.  He felt nervous and vulnerable and he couldn't quite let himself feel happy yet, unsure of what was happening, only certain that his ears must be deceiving him.

 

“Can I kiss you?” Ryan asked.

 

Still silent, Brendon blinked, a tremor running through him, and he nodded.  When he found it in him to look at Ryan again, he was met with Ryan's lips pressing against his own.  The contact was light and unsure on both ends, but Brendon was entirely overwhelmed.  He could hardly think or breathe, his heart beat deafeningly loud in his head, and the simple thought of how soft Ryan's lips were was the only thing he could focus on.  Brendon's eyes closed without him realizing it, lips moving slowly upon Ryan's lead, and his shoulders felt tense with the desire to reach out and touch Ryan in any way he could.  He refrained, in shock.  His eyes flew open when Ryan abruptly pulled away.

 

Within the second after they parted, Brendon searched almost desperately to meet Ryan's gaze, but Ryan's wide hazel eyes were turned downwards, and his cheeks were bright red.

 

“Ryan?” Brendon managed to say, confused yet hopeful, longing for the answer to be another kiss.

 

“Sorry,” Ryan murmured, bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his neck.  “I know you're not interested—”

 

“It's okay,” Brendon interrupted.

 

Ryan looked up at him with scared doe-eyes that made Brendon melt.  Before Brendon opened his mouth again, he made note of the smallest way Ryan's eyes kept flicking back to his lips, and he couldn't help but break out into a smile.

 

“It's okay,” Brendon said again.  “It's really, really okay.”

 

“It is?” Ryan asked.

 

“Yes, of course,” Brendon said, and he reached over to touch Ryan's wrist before he could stop himself.  Silently, he was begging Ryan to kiss him again, but he wasn't ready to lean in and initiate it himself.

 

Instead of Brendon's wish being granted immediately, Ryan said, “C-can I—can I kiss you again?”  This shy side of Ryan was not only extremely adorable to Brendon, it was also comforting, knowing he wasn't the only one who felt the same way.

 

Encouragingly, Brendon nodded, and mouthed the word, “yes.”  This time, when Ryan surged forward to kiss him, he brought a hand up to the back of Brendon's head, fingers sinking in his hair.  Brendon leaned in with a need to deepen the kiss, a need to be closer to Ryan.  He had wanted this for so long that he could sense all his pent-up frustration and yearning disappear, just from Ryan kissing him.  Ryan opened his mouth against Brendon's parted lips, his fingers stroking their way down his neck, and Brendon shuddered from that alone.

 

Ryan kept kissing him, over and over, and Brendon kept kissing back, finding himself feeling unable to stop.  It all felt so right, like the perfected version of a fantasy, to have Ryan there with him.  As time passed, the two of them grew more confident with each other, although Brendon had no concept of how long they had just been sitting there kissing.  Brendon unexpectedly felt arousal stir within him when Ryan's tongue slipped into his mouth, and he let out a shaky sigh.  At that, Ryan kissed him harder, but Brendon met him with an equal amount of force.  Their lips parted eventually, only by a couple inches, giving themselves a few seconds to pant and catch their breaths.  In this time, Brendon reached up to put his arms around Ryan's neck, wanting the contact.  He felt dizzy with the sensations of it all.

 

Relatively, they took things slow, content to make out as long as it felt natural.  As Ryan sucked on Brendon's bottom lip, an involuntary whine escaped his throat, making him flush pink with embarrassment.  He was embarrassed about wanting Ryan at all to begin with, but it took things to a new level when he found himself wanting to take things a step further with Ryan.  Between his legs, his black ballet tights hid nothing—his stomach curled with nervousness at the thought—and the situation would only be getting more obvious the longer Ryan kept running his tongue along his bottom lip with the perfect amount of pressure.  Ryan was clearly enjoying himself, and Brendon knew he was deliberately trying to elicit the same pleasurable reactions from him again and again.

 

Nobody had ever kissed Brendon like this before, and Brendon had never felt so affected by someone as he did with Ryan.  He didn't want Ryan to stop, didn't want to ever stop kissing him, but he had to squirm and cross his legs out of fear of Ryan noticing his apparent arousal.  Would it make Brendon seem too eager, too desperate, if Ryan noticed how hard he was getting?  Would it make Ryan walk away from him, and leave him there with nothing more?  Brendon worried.

 

Of course, Ryan did notice Brendon getting restless, and it caused him to break the kiss with Brendon, making Brendon chase after his lips for all of one second before feeling ridiculous.  Ryan carefully placed a hand atop of Brendon's upper thigh, the contact making Brendon's skin tingle, and breathed, “I want you.”

 

Brendon felt as though he might pass out from pure, unhinged lust, but he nodded before needily leaning in to kiss Ryan again.  Ryan kissed back with as much intensity as before, but his hands were wandering now, one rubbing circles into Brendon's upper thigh, the other cradling his skull.  Enraptured in Ryan and Ryan only, a sense of trust and ease washed over Brendon, calming him as Ryan gently lowered him to lay back on the stage. They didn't break their kiss for a second, and Brendon was relieved, because it felt safe already to stay connected at the lips.  Ryan straddled his hips, still holding Brendon's head in one palm, and pressed their lips together again.  “Is this okay?” Ryan asked, his eyes looking darker than normal when they made eye contact.

 

“Yes, yes,” Brendon said.  He still had some nagging thoughts about everything, but he pushed most of them away easily enough.

 

Ryan smiled down at him, a bit lopsided, his hair falling in his eyes, and Brendon knew this was all he wanted.  “I've wanted you for so long,” Ryan said, his hands finding their way down to Brendon's hips.  Brendon watched Ryan's thumbs slip under the waistband of his tights, touching the skin of his hip bones, and the rest of his slender fingers stretching down the sides of his thighs.  “These tights drive me crazy whenever I see them on you,” Ryan added, blushing.  “Can I take them off?”

 

Brendon felt a little shaky at the idea of Ryan seeing him naked, but he wanted it at the same time, wanted Ryan to see him and be impressed and attracted to him and  _ touch _ him.  He nodded as a way of permission to Ryan's question, yet said, “Wait, wait, I feel like you should know . . .”

 

Ryan removed his hands from Brendon's hips as soon as Brendon opened his mouth, and that gave Brendon an even higher sense of security.  “What is it, B?”

 

Brendon's face felt hot, and he could barely stammer the words out.  “Ryan, I—I've never—” he made a vague gesture to where Ryan was straddling his hips—“I’ve never done . . .”

 

“It's okay,” Ryan assured, seeming to understand what Brendon meant, “I've never done anything like this with a guy, either.”

 

Wide-eyed, Brendon shook his head.  “No, no, I've never done this before with  _ anyone _ , I—”

 

“You're a virgin?” Ryan questioned.

 

Brendon looked away from Ryan's eyes, not wanting to see if there was disappointment there when he nodded in confirmation to Ryan's question.

 

“Are you sure you want to do this with me?” Ryan asked, sounding timid.

 

“I'm sure,” Brendon blurted out.

 

“Well, then, we shouldn't stay here,” Ryan said.  Brendon blinked in a mixture of defeat and surprise when Ryan stood up.

 

“What do you mean?” Brendon asked, rushing to push himself up on his elbows.

 

“I want to take you back to my place, if that's okay with you.  It'll be a lot better than here.”

 

Brendon took a minute to process, and then nodded.  He thoroughly enjoyed the idea of Ryan taking him home with an almost definite promise of sex.  Brendon hadn't foreseen this in the slightest when he had arrived at rehearsal that morning, but he certainly wasn't complaining.  Ryan offered his hand to help Brendon up, and Brendon took it.

 

Ryan didn't let go to lead Brendon off the stage, scooping down to pick up both of their bags before leaving, and Brendon felt his insides twist with the thrill.  “Are you still feeling okay?” Ryan asked, when they got out to his car.

 

Brendon looked down at the hand Ryan was holding, and said, “Yeah, I'm doing good,” though it did nothing to encapsulate his true feelings of joy.

 

In Brendon's mind and memory, the ride to Ryan's house was all a blur of unimportant street signs and stop lights.  The only thing he cared about was Ryan sneaking glances at him while he drove, and the couple chaste kisses Ryan pressed to his neck, just to remind him of his desires.  His head caught back up to him when he was pushed back against Ryan's front door, from the inside of his apartment, with Ryan kissing him passionately.  Brendon's knees felt weak, and he didn't have the advantage he had before of sitting beside Ryan.  All he could do was fall apart in Ryan's hands, his lips locking him in place.  A low, short moan came from his chest when Ryan dropped a hand down to his lower back.

 

“Do you want me to show you to the bedroom?” Ryan offered, which Brendon couldn't possibly turn down.  He kept his hand lightly on Brendon's lower back to walk him into a bedroom—not distinctly tidy or messy, just clearly lived in—clearly lived in by  _ Ryan _ —and Brendon felt a rush of excitement.

 

Ryan maintained a casual air as he slipped off his shoes.  Brendon followed his lead and did the same.  “You're quiet,” Ryan noted.

 

“I'm nervous,” Brendon said, without thinking.

 

“We don't have to do anything, Brendon.  If you don't want this—”

 

“I want to do this.  With you.  I just . . . I want you to like me,” Brendon said, meekly.  “I don't want to disappoint you.”

 

“You couldn't.  I want you, no matter who you have or haven't slept with.  And I want you to be comfortable, so if you're not feeling it, then we don't have to go through with anything.  I won't even touch you if you don't want it,” Ryan said, and took his hand off Brendon's back to demonstrate.

 

Brendon quickly reached to replace Ryan's hand on his waist, having Ryan face him.  He raised up on his toes to kiss Ryan, and Ryan grinned.  “You're a good kisser,” Ryan said.

 

“Oh, yeah?” Brendon asked.

 

Ryan nodded, and kissed him again.  “So, can we pick up where we left off at the theater?” Ryan asked, hands falling down to the flare of Brendon's hips.

 

“Yeah, yes.”  Brendon brainlessly let Ryan guide him backwards to lay in the middle of the bed, on his back.  He felt exposed, but he quite liked the idea of being exposed to Ryan.  With Brendon's tights, Ryan was slow, careful, and pulled them all the way down.  They skimmed and brushed over his hard cock, making his hips jerk a couple times under Ryan's hands.

 

“You have such a gorgeous figure,” Ryan said.  “Can I take your shirt off, too, or do you want to keep it on?”

 

“It depends on what you want to see,” Brendon replied, looking up at Ryan suggestively.

 

“All of you,” Ryan said, and he gripped Brendon's shirt to help him take it off right there, as well.  He laid completely naked underneath Ryan, and found himself getting more aroused.  Ryan gasped slightly, and said, “Look at how beautiful you are.”

 

Brendon giggled.  “You're just sweet.”  Ryan crawled on the bed to lean over Brendon, get something out of the nightstand.  Brendon kept his eyes trained on Ryan's slender body, and had to ask, “Will-will you take your clothes off, too?”

 

At the question, Ryan seemed flustered, and said, “Oh, oh, yeah.  I forgot, sorry.”  He pulled his own shirt over his head, and Brendon watched in awe as Ryan revealed his pale torso, just for him.  Ryan continued to strip down to his underwear, but stopped there.  Brendon's heart was pounding again, looking at Ryan like this, and he took a moment to appreciate where he was—laying naked in Ryan's bed with a mostly-naked Ryan there with him.

 

“Maybe I'm a little nervous, too,” Ryan said.

 

“Why’re you nervous?” Brendon asked.

 

“Because I want to make you feel good.  I don't want to hurt you.”

 

“You're doing fine so far,” Brendon said.

 

“Thanks,” Ryan said, and pecked Brendon's lips again.

 

Brendon felt absolutely giddy, as Ryan moved to the edge of the bed.  He spread his legs, allowing Ryan to lay on his stomach between them.  “We’re gonna go slow, okay?  If anything hurts, tell me and I'll fix it,” Ryan said.  Brendon bit his lip and nodded.  “Okay.  Can I touch you?”

 

The question made Brendon laugh.  “Yes, please,” he giggled.

 

Ryan smiled up at him and held eye contact as he pressed a kiss to Brendon’s lower stomach.  Brendon’s skin broke out in goosebumps as Ryan slowly slid his hands up Brendon’s thighs to rest on the slight protrusions of his hipbones.  Ryan took a visible deep breath, and lightly placed his fingers on the head of Brendon’s hard cock.  Brendon couldn’t help the way he squirmed underneath Ryan’s touch, his body reacting more than he expected from Ryan barely doing anything to him at all.  Gradually, Ryan stroked down Brendon’s cock to wrap his hand around the base.  Ryan’s fingers were long and slender, and they felt so, so good touching Brendon like this, working his cock languidly and with purpose until Brendon was leaking onto Ryan’s hand, getting closer to the edge with each passing stroke.  Brendon was in heaven, and felt more than content to allow Ryan to make him come just like that, but deep down he knew they both had more in mind.  Before Ryan stopped touching his cock, Brendon fought to keep his hips still and not make any unflattering noises that would disrupt the setting; he bit at his kiss-swollen lips and tensed up, wanting everything to be perfect, wanting to be perfect for Ryan.

 

He even startled when Ryan’s airy, sweet voice broke the air, and Ryan simply squeezed around the base of his cock to still him once more.  “I’m going to finger you, if you’re ready,” he said, quietly, but still loud enough for Brendon to be able to hear the tremor in his voice.  A wave of nervousness hit Brendon again, but he knew he had no real reason to feel that way—this was what he wanted, something that had been in the back of his mind for months, and he trusted Ryan with his body more than anyone.  He knew Ryan would do his best to take care of him, especially seeing that Ryan was nervous about all of this himself.

 

“Go ahead,” Brendon said.

 

Earlier, Brendon supposed, Ryan had gotten lube to prepare for this moment.  He was fascinated just with watching the careful way Ryan poured some onto his fingers, and watched closely as Ryan slipped his hand between Brendon’s legs.  Brendon bent his knees and felt Ryan’s fingertip press against his entrance.  His shoulders tensed at the feeling, drawing in a breath and holding it without even realizing.

 

“Relax, B.  You’re okay,” Ryan said.  Brendon exhaled and focused on loosening his muscles.  He had to tell himself that nothing bad could possibly come from this—he was with Ryan, the one he had been pining after for months now.  “There you go, that’s better,” Ryan said, and, just like that, had slipped one finger inside Brendon.

 

Brendon tried to stay as relaxed as he was before.  The sensation wasn’t great, not giving him any physical pleasure, but simply a bit of discomfort.  He shifted his hips marginally in hopes of the feeling changing, but it made no difference.  Ryan was looking up at him with a questioning expression, and all Brendon could think to say was, “You can do more.”

 

“Okay,” Ryan breathed.  Brendon took in the way Ryan’s bare shoulder rolled as he shifted, saw the muscles in his forearms flex as he inched a second finger in along with the first.  He could really feel it now, two fingers being a bit of a stretch, but it wasn’t quite painful.  He just didn’t know how he could take anymore without it getting to that point.  “Is this okay?” Ryan asked, unsure-sounding.

 

“It’s fine,” Brendon said.

 

“I'm gonna try something, so if it hurts, just tell me . . .” Ryan muttered.

 

Brendon opened his legs up by a couple more inches as if it would make a difference.  Ryan scissored his fingers inside Brendon, deliberately, and Brendon knew he would appreciate the stretch later.  So far he wasn't particularly enjoying it, so he allowed himself to become distracted by looking at Ryan's face.  He looked focused, focused on Brendon, licking his lips with his eyebrows furrowed.  In the moment, Brendon's heart swelled, and he felt fulfilled with the knowledge that Ryan wanted him, truly.  It shocked him, physically, when he felt Ryan's fingers press into him just right—a pulse of arousal was sent straight to his cock, throbbing, and he couldn't stop a loud moan from coming out of him, the pleasure being all too great.  He clamped a hand over his mouth as soon as he made the noise, blushing again.

 

Ryan only grinned about it.  “Is that good?” He said, and did it again, earning nearly the same reaction from Brendon.  His hand dropped from his mouth to the bedsheets as he cried out, squeezing his eyes shut.

 

“Fuck,” Brendon whined, panting, “so good, Ryan.”

 

While Brendon was caught up in the pleasure of it all, Ryan teased another finger against his rim.  Ryan wrapped his free hand around Brendon's cock again while he pushed a third finger into him.  It was unlike any arousal Brendon had ever felt before, making him feel close to the edge of an orgasm already.  Whatever Ryan was doing with his fingers was just too much for him.

 

The stretch of three fingers was a lot, and Ryan kept them inside him for longer than he had with the first two.  Whenever one of them brushed against Brendon's prostate, his whole body reacted, embarrassingly.  Ryan seemed pleased every time.  “Do you think you can take more, or do you want to stop here?” Ryan asked, bending and spreading his fingers inside Brendon.  He could hardly comprehend Ryan's words, but when he thought of having Ryan's cock inside him, he felt over-eager and full of want.

 

“I can take more, I'm ready, you can—” Brendon began rambling but was soon cut off by the sight before him.  His voice died in his throat, eyes going wide as he watched Ryan remove his underwear.  Brendon didn't know why he was surprised, but he sat there in utter shock at the sight of Ryan's erection.  He didn't know how he was going to take it without his body breaking.  Ryan was just so much _ bigger _ than he expected.

 

Ryan must've noticed him staring, because he met Brendon's eyes and asked, “Are you okay?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm just—”

 

Ryan leaned up to kiss him again.  “We won't do anything you don't want to do.  I'm not going to be disappointed if you want to stop.”

 

Brendon shook his head.  “No, I want you, you have no idea how bad, I'm just a little nervous still, that's all.”

 

“I'll be really careful with you, I promise.”  He kissed him once more, and Brendon made himself continue to relax.

 

Ryan rolled on a condom, and Brendon watched him use more lube than was probably necessary to prepare.  He reached for one of Brendon's legs, and looked to him as if asking for permission yet again.  Brendon nodded and shifted, letting Ryan lift his thigh with ease to give them a better angle.  Then, less than a second later, Brendon felt the head of Ryan's cock pressing lightly against his entrance.

 

Brendon braced himself for a pain that didn't hit him, even as Ryan slowly, so slowly, pressed his cock into him.  It was a stretch, sure, but it didn't give him the pain of being split open that he thought.  Ryan had done a good job at prepping him beforehand, and Brendon sighed in relief when Ryan's pelvis met his hips, all the way in him.  “Good?” Ryan checked in.

 

“Good, yeah, I'm good,” Brendon said.

 

Ryan leaned down to kiss him, and Brendon strained his neck to meet him in the middle.  Brendon could barely believe this was happening, suddenly, realizing he was kissing Ryan, Ryan Ross, and he started smiling into Ryan's lips.

 

Brendon could feel the slightest shift of Ryan’s hips, and it occurred to him that the stimulation must have been a bit much for Ryan to just stay still.  “Can I—?” Ryan began to ask.

 

“Yes, anything,” Brendon whispered.

 

Ryan pulled out part way, and pushed all the way back in.  He was going slow enough that Brendon knew it was all for his benefit, but he felt bad.  He wanted Ryan to be enjoying this, too, and stop worrying so much.  Yet as Brendon opened his mouth to say as much, he found himself fumbling for words, blushing at the idea of saying it out loud.  “You . . . you can go faster,” Brendon managed.  “You’re not going to break me.”

 

“You sure?” Ryan said.

 

“Yeah,” Brendon said, reaching up to touch Ryan’s hair on impulse.

 

It was Ryan’s turn to blush, but it went virtually unnoticed due to him rolling his hips into Brendon and letting out a soft groan.  “Fuck, you feel amazing,” Ryan said.

 

Brendon was proud of himself, and kind of never wanted the look of pure pleasure on Ryan’s face to go away.  He grew more calm as Ryan continued to thrust into him, still being careful and mindful of it being Brendon’s first time.  Ryan was trying to get his angle right to make it perfect for both of them. He did, after not much longer, Brendon’s body jolting and back arching, another moan slipping out of his mouth.  He bit down on his lip quickly to prevent any other embarrassing noises from coming out, but it was simply a lost cause when he felt the head of Ryan’s cock hit that sweet spot again.  Ryan seemed breathless as he said, “You don’t have to hold back.  Nobody will hear you but me.”

 

Brendon was keenly aware of that information, had been the whole time, but hearing Ryan say it assured him that he had no reason to be so ashamed.  Directly after his words, Ryan bucked his hips into him particularly hard for the pace that they’d been going, and Brendon called out Ryan’s name before he could even think about it.

 

Ryan reached down to grasp at Brendon’s cock, moving his hips faster against Brendon’s, clearly starting to get closer to coming.  As soon as Ryan’s hand made contact with his cock, he knew it was all over, that he would be finished soon.  With Ryan’s cock hitting his prostate over and over, and Ryan stroking him off, Brendon had to hold back from coming immediately in Ryan’s hand.  He wanted to hold on so it would last longer; everything felt so good, way better than he could have imagined his first time being.  “Ryan, I c-can’t, I’m gonna—” Brendon’s voice cracked off into a groan as his stomach tightened with arousal.  He couldn’t hold on much longer.

 

“Go ahead, baby, I know what you need,” Ryan said, and pressed his thumb into the slit of Brendon’s cock.  With his vision going fuzzy and a course of heat washing over him, he came over Ryan’s hand and onto his own torso.  He panted as his jaw went slack, eyes rolling back, his orgasm seeming to go on for ages before he was totally spent.   It wasn’t long before Ryan was gasping out the word, “Brendon,” stilling his hips while he was buried deep inside Brendon, and coming inside the condom.

 

The first thing Brendon registered, afterwards, was how smudged Ryan’s blue eyeliner was, almost giving him the look that he had been crying.  Then, Brendon’s main emotion was exhaustion, in every part of his body down to his bones.  He didn’t mind, though, feeling strangely blissful for how tired he was.  The luxury of being able to kiss Ryan as soon as he had the urge to was still new to Brendon, so he had a delayed response to give Ryan a languid kiss on the mouth.

 

When they broke the kiss, Brendon’s head hit the pillow behind him with a  _ thump _ , and he felt entirely at peace.  “I’m gonna pull out,” Ryan warned, and Brendon nodded vacantly.  He took a sharp intake of breath at the uncomfortable feeling of suddenly being empty, and Ryan mumbled an apology.  “How’re you feeling?” Ryan asked, concern in his voice.

 

“Good.  Really good,” Brendon said, his eyes falling closed.

 

“I’m glad.”

 

Brendon heard the bed creak slightly as Ryan stood up, and if he listened closely, he could hear Ryan’s light footsteps as he walked away.  He forced his eyes open to watch where Ryan was going, and if he turned his head, he could see him discarding the condom in the bathroom.  Without Ryan’s presence for only a couple seconds, Brendon’s naturally worried mind started taking over again.  He’d just had sex with Ryan—he probably shouldn’t just be lying idly in Ryan’s bed.  His thoughts raced through everything that had gotten him into this position.  He knew his own feelings for Ryan were powerful, and that’s why he would even consider agreeing to Ryan taking his virginity, but he didn’t know the extent of how Ryan thought of him.  Basically, there was a good possibility Ryan just wanted to have sex that day, just then, and nothing more.  Brendon sat bolt upright at the thought, trying to blink any euphoric drowsiness from his eyes.

 

Right as he was about to get out of bed, find wherever Ryan had thrown his clothes, and flee the apartment, Ryan came back, still completely naked, and cast Brendon a lazy smile.  “Where are you going?” He asked, and he sounded the way Brendon felt only moments before—giddy and bemused.

 

Ryan sunk back down onto the mattress, his gaze trained on Brendon, blinks slow.  “I should get going,” Brendon said, stiff, and moved like he was about to fully stand up.

 

The happy look fell off Ryan’s face, and Brendon’s chest sank.  “Where—where do you have to be?” Ryan asked, wide eyes searching.

 

Brendon gulped.  “I’m sure you have other things to do, you don’t need me around for it.”  He laughed, sounding nervous and unlike himself.

 

“You can stay, B.  If you want to.  I mean, I want you to.  And besides, you’ll be sore when you get up, so you should just lay with me and . . .” Ryan trailed off, looking down timidly.  Brendon didn’t need much more convincing.  His spirits soared again from what Ryan was saying.

 

“I’ll stay,” Brendon said, decidedly.  “As long as you don’t mind.”

 

Ryan shook his head and moved over to give Brendon an ample amount of space in the bed.  Brendon laid back down, much more comfortable already.  When he looked over at Ryan, Ryan appeared to be lost in thought, and tension practically radiated off of him.  “Thank you,” Brendon said, to break it.

 

“Of course,” Ryan said, seeming surprised.

 

“I wouldn’t have done this with anyone else,” he confessed.

 

Ryan fully turned over to gently kiss him.  “I’ve wanted you here for so long, B.”

 

“I’ve wanted you, too,” Brendon smiled, and didn’t let Ryan move much farther away after that.


End file.
